Past and Present
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Bret wanted it all behind him. Little did he know that this night was about to open a whole new can of worms in his life--and all because another damned blond. "You screamed loudest of anyone in the dungeon, Chris." Bret, Chris, Shawn, Hunter, Show, more.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Okay…wow. I am afraid of this fic. *hides* This is inspired by Monday Night Raw with Bret hosting, past events, the break-up of Jerishow, and an rp with a friend. This is going to be one hell of a ride, just grab on and hold tight if you have the courage. I barely do—but that didn't seem to stop the musi from this…and by the way…anyone have a life preserver? I feel like I'm going to drown in this fic! *gulp* Thank you for reading, please review if you can!**_

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**~Past and Present~**

_He'll never love you, the way that I love you 'cause if he did, no no, he wouldn't make you cry.  
_

_He might be thrillin' baby but a-my love (my love, my love), so dog-gone willin'. _

_So kiss him (I wanna see you kiss him. Wanna see you kiss him) Go on and kiss him goodbye, now—_

_Na na na na, hey hey-ey, goodbye. Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey-ey, goodbye_

_Listen to me now_

~x~

* * *

"I don't know anyone back here."

Bret mumbled feeling a bit awkward, and a little overwhelmed. After being mobbed by tons of people expecting him to know them like he had been following RAW enough to remember who each and every person was, he ducked down a corner to get away from it all. He was flattered by the admiration and chants, but these days he wanted to be in the spot light less than he used to.

Now, he was just looking for something to do after the show, which didn't involve Shawn, even after they supposedly had their brand new start. The main problem to that was that Hunter was bound to be with him, and Bret didn't want a brand new start with that big nose, unless it started off with punching him in said over large facial feature. He glanced at the names on the doors as he moved down a hallway, hoping for one that looked familiar. He walked by Jericho's, skidded a bit, and walked back to it.

"Finally. Someone I know." He knocked on the door, waiting.

Inside, Chris tilted his head at the door, wondering who was knocking. After all, he wasn't the most sought after person right about now. There were very few on the Raw roster to choose from who might be tapping on his door. His heart beat a little bit faster, at the thought that it might be Paul, and he rushed over only half dressed in a pair of designer jeans, his hair still wet from his shower. He pulled the door open, but immediately his elated smile fell into a frown that was becoming characteristic on his face. He was expecting someone a little taller, and with less hair, not Bret Hart.

"Bret." Chris didn't try to hide the annoyance laced in his voice. "What do you want? Have you come back to insult me and call me a hypocrite for the second time in one night?"

"Look, about what I said earlier. Maybe I was too harsh. I just…like I said, it's finally over; I want it to stay over. I'm done with Shawn Michaels." He threw up his hands--his blonde ghost was finally out of his life, or at least a lot less haunting than he had been. "I also wanted to say you and Paul seemed really great. Especially you." He shrugged a shoulder. "But everything comes to end, y'know?" His next words were carefully measured, because he sensed that there had been something much deeper with Jerishow than just a tag-team. "You can either let it go, or never get over it. I've done the second one enough times in my life to say that's the wrong option, or at least the loneliest option."

Bret almost chuckled at his own words. As a younger man he wouldn't have bothered offering his advice so freely, and his advice back then would have been less profound. What, was he suddenly becoming a wise old man? Well, time had just taught him things the hard way, that was all. He watched Chris's face as his eyes blinked slowly, as if processing what Bret had said.

His words hit close for Chris, but he just had a hard time letting go of things, even when they were clearly over he wanted them to be salvaged—and Bret one to be talking about letting go, after he held onto something for twelve years? Anyway, Chris didn't want to be left alone, which was his biggest reason for scratching and clawing to hold on. It didn't seem to matter though, how ragged his nails tore against that precarious ledge. No matter how hard he tried, being alone was always the outcome. Each time he told himself this was it, this was different, but it never was.

He didn't know what he did to drive people away, or what he was lacking. He'd spent endless hours looking into the mirror, and asking his reflection that question, as though he'd get any answer but a few tears and this arrogant, harsh personality he'd built up in order to hide behind. He'd made the mistake of showing Paul what was really behind that shield, and now here he was, crushed again.

_You all love to see Chris Jericho down and out! _

His own words which he'd spoken in the ring not long ago at Smackdown event echoed through his mind. He studied Bret closely, considering his words, but right now he couldn't let go of all the wrongs. What did it matter to Bret anyway? Bret wasn't known as the most compassionate person, and he had no reason to care about what Chris was going through. Chris's gaze darkened at the older man, his scowl deepening.

"You know nothing about Paul and I." Chris hated the unsteady sound of his voice, the whine in it, but sometimes he couldn't stop it. He just felt so devastated. He couldn't even look at Bret, so instead he looked down at his bare feet, and started to close the door.

"You're right about that, but one thing I sure as hell know a lot about is broken relationships. That seems to be my specialty. It's never pretty, it's never amicable." Bret frowned a bit. "But listen, if you feel that strongly about it Chris, then…do something big to win him back. Something that will make him see he made a mistake in ending it."

"Maybe I could..." Chris stopped, his sentence dropping off as the person they were discussing appeared behind Bret, looming easily over him. "Paul!" Chris moved past Bret. "Paul, we need to talk, please I lo--"

Chris was once again interrupted, this time by Paul shoving something hard against his chest that it knocked his breath away for a moment.

"I didn't come to talk, Chris. I made it clear that I'm done with you. If that wasn't enough to get through to you, then maybe this is." Paul motioned at what he'd shoved against Chris's chest, which the blond now had in his hands, it was Chris's Fozzy shirt. "That was in my bag. Just thought you might want it back."

Chris opened his mouth to protest, and chased after Pauls retreating back.

"I said it's over!" Pauls' voice echoed loudly through the hallway. He pushed Chris against the wall, and bent, their noses touching. He stared into Chris's eyes until tears formed on the golden lashes, and dripped down his face. Paul left him. Chris was completely humiliated and hurt. He sank down against the wall, wiping his pink eyes with the wadded up shirt in his hands.

Bret had stood there watching the scene fold out, trying to determine whether or not he should step in or sidle out of the way down the hallway--out of the confrontation completely. After all, there wasn't much he could do to move a bulldozer like The Big Show. It turned out that it had all happened too fast for Bret to really do anything at all. Paul growled his harsh words, and left Chris even more broken than he had been before. Bret stood there rubbing his arm, and finally got fidgety. What the hell was he supposed to do? He found his thoughts drift back to The Dungeon, and a very young, fresh, conquer-the-world blond who had the only smile that would ever compare with that certain other blond. Now, that conquer-the-world one was hunched against the wall crying into a dirty shirt, his life seeming to be in pieces at the moment. Bret felt compelled to step over, and offer Chris a hand.

"Come on, let's get out of the hallway." He motioned toward Chris' dressing room. He moved him into the room, and closed the door behind them, in order to give the younger man a chance to ride out the wave of his heartbreak.

When Bret turned around, Chris had moved away from him, and pulled open his locker. He was trying hard to stop the tears and hold back everything that wanted to flood out. He didn't want Bret to see him like this—he couldn't. After a few deep breaths he managed to use his angry, cold, persona to shut out everything else. He pulled out his bag and stuffed the Fozzy shirt into the bottom, found a clean shirt, and pulled it over his head. When he turned back to Bret his tears were dried, and his face seemed void of any emotion, his eyes empty.

"I'm too good for that gelatinous, parasitic freak anyway!" Chris bit out, as he shouldered his bag. "You're too good for Shawn Michaels too." He added, talking in that flat tone which he used in the ring. "If you don't have some little touching post-apologetic reunion to attend to with the princess, then why don't we go grab a drink or two? We can talk about how we're both the best in the world at what we do."

"No, I don't have a reunion with Michaels. What everyone saw early was it. I'm staying away from him. He's nothing but trouble. He was back then, and I'm sure he is now, despite all the rumors of some grand change in him." He rubbed his temples. "A drink sounds great—but I have to watch it these days. I can't drink like I used to." He said putting his hand on Jericho's shoulder. "Come on, my treat. Now, let's get the hell outta here."

**~}|{~**

The bar was a welcome site to Chris, who was still struggling to keep things from boiling over. In the rental he tried to keep his mind off Paul, but it wasn't working as well as he'd hoped. When he managed to shove Paul out of his thoughts, then his mind wandered to others. He thought back to Shawn, and that catastrophe which had prompted Vince to put them in a feud--the one where Chris messed up Shawn's eye, and punched his wife, all because he'd been jilted once again. Others floated through his jumbled mindscape, but mainly his thoughts were on Paul and Shawn, but then Shawn led to Bret, who was now sitting in the booth across from him with a bottle of Grey Goose between them.

_You screamed the loudest of all in The Dungeon. _Bret had said earlier, and that had brought back a memory Chris hadn't entertained for a while. He wondered if Bret even remembered, hell that night they'd both been drunk. Chris most likely wouldn't have remembered it himself, but that had been his first time with a man, and he was so young, and it wasn't just any man it was _thee_ man. He sipped on his vodka and watched Bret.

"So...did I really scream louder than anyone else in The Dungeon?" Chris was surprised to feel his lips curving a little, moving towards a smile on a night when he really didn't feel like smiling at all.

Bret sipped at the strong liquid which he hadn't tasted for a while. He didn't drink that much anymore, but he had liked his vodka in the worst way in his youth. It had got to the point, in fact, until he couldn't remember what he'd done the nights he was wasted, or how many nights had even passed together. He remembered very vaguely something that had once happened with Chris on one of those drunken occasions. They were wrestling? To this day he couldn't recall the majority of that memory, and he had always wondered about it from time to time. He was running his finger around the glass in thought, trying to recall even now, but found that he couldn't. As for the screaming that took place in The Dungeon--

"Really, it's hard to tell. A lot of people screamed there. Tyson has an incredibly girly scream. But loudest? You may be the winner of that award, Chris." He laughed, smiling a bit when he saw Chris doing the same. "That smile. I remember that smile the most of all. You always smiled the most when you were up to something—which was most of the time." He teased. In fact, Chris had one of the best smiles of anyone he'd ever trained or met. It was challenging, teasing, and slightly mysterious.

"Some of my most treasured memories are from The Dungeon." Chris said. "I learned a lot there...I learned a lot from you."

Chris kept his eyes trained to Bret's darker ones, trying to figure out if he was reading any potential double meaning into the words. He was attempting to decipher, without having to outright ask, just what Bret remembered about the time Chris had spent in The Dungeon, more importantly if he remembered that one time that meant the most. He had decided if Bret didn't show any indications of remembering that night, then he was just going to keep that jewel to himself. It would be too awkward to just dump it out on Bret right here, right now.

"Yeah about that. The dungeon has a lot of memories for me too, but some are fuzzier than others." Bret sat his drink down and avoided the cobalt eyes across from him. "I have something to ask you. Years ago…do you remember a time when you and I got smashed? I remember some parts of it, but not all. I remember wrestling at one point, but most of that night is missing in my memory." He took a long gulp of the Grey Goose, letting it burn down his throat. "Chris, what happened that night?" Bret asked finally, looking right back into Chris's vibrant eyes.

Chris hesitated for a moment, and then swallowed the rest of the clear liquid that was in his glass. It was now, or never.

"Yeah, we wrestled that night. I wanted you to show me The Sharpshooter and we just ended up in an awkward, impromptu match. You finally pinned me. You held my shoulders to the floor and sat on my waist. "What else do you want to learn?" You said, only it was slurred because we'd drank a lot." Chris was smirking a little, as all of that night played out clearly in his mind, as though it had only been yesterday. "I said I wanted to learn anything you had to teach me, and you winked, and bent down close to my ear, and you growled: "Chris, I could teach you a lot of things." Before I could say anything else, you…you kissed me. I was shocked but...but I kind of liked it. I really wasn't sure of myself back then, about where I stood on certain issues, but after that it was clear to me. You taught me a lot more than wrestling that night."

Bret paled a little. He'd often wondered if there had been something heavier than a little wrestling that had went on that night, but he never had imagined it to be all that. Now that Chris had laid it all out, he could actually remember some of it. He remembered the alcohol making his touches clumsy as he moved around Chris's young, beautiful, body. He remembered their fingers laced together when it was over. Chris's eyes were wide watching him with silent admiration, long blond hair stuck to his cheeks which were tinted with a pretty rosy blush from their activities.

"I… I really enjoyed it that night. I can't believe I didn't remember it all. I was so smashed… Jesus Chris, I'm sorry. I wasn't out to take advantage of you."

Chris laughed.

"Bret, calm down, it's okay. It's always been a memory I've treasured, and really I ought to thank you for it. You helped me discover myself. You have no reason to feel bad for it." Chris's smile grew a little wider. "Maybe you just have a weakness for pretty blonds." He reached for the bottle in the center of the table, and poured more of the liquid into his glass.

"You're right I guess, but that certain 'weakness' as you called it, usually lands me in the middle of trouble. Maybe it was better that I didn't remember this until now, or who knows what kind of drama would have went on. As it was, things seem to have turned out pretty well for you. You're one of my greatest successes. You're out there doing the memory of The Dungeon proud."

Chris's face colored red at the flattery from his mentor. He looked back down, feeling a little guilty now for what he was about to say, like saying it would let Bret down...but he'd been thinking about this since he and Paul started having problems outside the ring. If he and Paul couldn't stay together, if that ended broken like everything else, Chris had made his mind up that he was going to quit, and leave the squared circle behind him for good. It was all just getting to be too much for him to cope with.

"Thanks, but I...I don't know. I don't know if I'm doing as well as all that. Really Bret...I might not be around much longer." Chris's brow furrowed up as he looked down into the alcohol in his glass. "I think it's time to pull the plug on Chris Jericho. There's nothing left for me in this company." _I can't stay here alone like this_. He added mentally, a wave of sadness, and despair rushing over him.

"What? No!" Bret shook his head, his voice pitched up. "Don't make that mistake, Chris, you're so talented, and they need you so badly. Look at it this way, now that you're free from tag team commitments, you can move on to the big picture. You should go for the heavyweight belt, and get yourself back into the main picture. I'm sure you could convince Vince to go with it, you've always been a good talker—just don't quit Chris, don't!" Bret said pounding a fist on the table enough to rattle the glasses and bottle. "You've still got it Chris. Don't waste it. Don't let what happened tonight ruin you forever, don't let your broken heart dictate your life like I—like some people do. Promise me you'll try. One more time, try for me."

Chris's eyes were misted over, at Bret's powerful words. He didn't want to try anymore. He was tired of trying and trying some more. But that look on Bret's face and the things he said, he thought highly of Chris, and even though Chris didn't want to stick around, he didn't want to let his mentor down. Slowly, he nodded his head and drained his glass again.

"Okay Bret...I'll try." He tried to make it sound like his heart was in it, but Bret had a pretty good shit detector so no doubt he could tell that at this moment, his words weren't very strong. But, maybe that was good enough answer for right now. Chris reached for the bottle again, but stopped when a shadow fell over the table. It was quickly followed by a voice that made Chris scowl and had his hackles rising right away. It was Hunter.

"So, Christina." Hunter leered. "How does it feel to be banned from the companies top show?"

Chris's grip tightened around his glass as he stiffened with anger. Hunter just continued, always one to rub salt into wounds.

"Better yet, how does it feel that you don't have your giant lap dog to fight your battles anymore?" Hunter snorted.

That was it. Any better mood that might have been slowly creeping up on Chris had been sucked away to rage. He lunged at Hunter, and the two started a battle of fists as Chris screamed things that were mostly incoherent, tears streaming down his face. Shawn rushed over, along with some others, and finally the two of them were pulled apart. Someone shoved Chris back into the booth he'd been in before Hunter came over. Shawn latched onto Hunters arm and pressed his fingers to a drip of blood slowly leaking from his lovers' nose. Shawn looked from Bret, to Chris, back to Bret again.

"Did you put him up to this because you hate Hunter?" Shawn snarled at Bret, seeming to forget everything that had just played out in the ring earlier.

"Whoah, calm down there diva." Bret put his hands up. "Big nose came over to our table, not the other way around. If you could keep your bitch on a tighter leash, Shawn, then things like this wouldn't happen." Bret smirked, as Hunter's nostrils flared, his eyes seething. Maybe Bret's feud with Shawn was over, but he had yet to forgive Hunter, and it might be twelve more years before or if that day ever came.

"I'm no ones bitch, Hart!" The taller blond spat.

"Listen, _LeVesque_…" Bret spat with just as much venom as H, and he moved out of the booth so the two were face to face. "You didn't have the balls to come out to the ring tonight, or face me like a man, or anything—not that I ever expected it. Wait until you've had a few drinks in you to come over here and pick on someone whose just had his heart stomped on, so you can feel badass or something? Is that it? Well, that sounds like a sissy bitch to me."

"Get out of my face _old man_." Hunter shoved Bret, to which Shawn gripped his arm tighter.

"Hunter, let's just go--"

"I may be old--" Bret interjected his voice a growl. "But I have enough hate stored up for you, Big Nose, that I could lay your ass out and fuck you up like you've never been fucked before."

"Tch, you'd break a hip."

"I'd break your god damn face."

For a few tense moments, they were toe to toe, eyes burning like hot pokers into one another. Shawn was ducking his face into his hand, the present resembling too much of the past for his comfort. Wasn't his night about putting the past to rest? Shawn tugged at Hunters arm again.

"Come on Hunt, let's just go. This isn't worth it."

After a couple more silent, snarled, moments, Hunter obliged Shawn and followed him out of the bar. Though in his mind, this wasn't over. Hunter didn't care what kind of hogwash Bret said in the ring to Shawn, to Vince, to the WWE Universe, none of that mattered, and he doubted how much truth—if any—there was to it all.

"Jesus Christ." Bret muttered, as he turned back to the table, pulling at his gray-brown hair. He cursed again, when finding it empty, the bottle of Grey Goose laying depleted on its side.

He glanced around the bar, looking for the tuft of spikey blond hair that belonged to his drinking partner. After a bit of hunting, he finally noticed him at the bar and approached. As he got closer, he could hear the sobbing, and see Chris's shoulders shuddering with the convulsive waves. There was already another empty bottle of vodka on the counter, and another in Chris's hand that was being worked on.

"Chris, let's get out of here." Bret said quietly, attempting to help him off the bar stool.

Chris allowed himself to be helped down—or maybe chugging so fast had just made it impossible for him to stay on the seat. He was gulping from the bottle again, and Bret had to pry it from his griping fingers as he cried, the alcohol running down his chin and wetting the front of his shirt. Bret sat the other bottle on the bar and tossed some money, one arm wrapped around Chris's waist to try and steady him. He managed to get Chris out to the rental without a face plant—which he didn't need because one of his eyes was already sporting a purple crescent beneath it from where one of Hunter's fists had connected.

Bret got him into the car, and drove them back to the hotel, his stomach knotting up as Chris leaned against the window and wept. He wrangled Chris into the hotel, and leaned him against the desk, hoping he wouldn't fall down because he probably couldn't pick him back up from a prone pile on the floor. Bret got his room key, then glanced at Chris.

"What room is Mr. Chris Irvine staying in?"

The woman behind the counter looked over her computer screen, and shook her head.

"I don't have a room registered under that name."

It occurred to Bret then, that Chris was probably going to stay with Paul that night, until everything just imploded.

"Never mind, he's staying with me tonight."

Bret got Chris into the elevator, and grimacing, wiped his messy-wet face with the sleeve of his shirt. When he drew it back it was covered with wet splotches from the flowing tears, and shiny patches of glistening snot. This wasn't how Bret had imagined his evening turning out, after such an attempt to avoid drama.

"Showme the Shar'shooter." Chris slurred. "Mr. Hart show me the Sh-Shoo…Shoopsharter…"

Bret sighed.

"No Chris, I'm not showing you The Sharpshooter. You already know all about it anyway."

"Budahwanna learn." Chris cried.

"You are drunk, and you are going to bed."

The elevator came to a stop, and Bret dragged Chris out of it as he kept up his nearly incoherent sobbing and rambling. They got to Bret's room and he moved Chris to the bed. He shut the door, kicked off his shoes, and joined Chris. The blond was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes never stopping their tears, but his lids were starting to droop. His eyes rolled back, then snapped open, like a child trying to fight off the inevitable sleep, he was trying to fight away the heaviness of the alcohol that was ready to drag him under.

"Chris, just go to sleep."

"Nuhhuh…"

Bret couldn't help but smile a little. He remembered when Shawn would get wasted out of his mind, and he'd do something similar. Shawn was always such a child…but that was all finished with, Bret reminded himself. But even so, Chris's whimpering reminded him of Shawn, and he really just wanted Chris to go to sleep so he didn't have to remember the nights when Shawn cried. He knew that was selfish, but he'd always been accused of that particular flaw. With a sigh, Bret ran his hands through Chris's short hair, dragging his fingertips lightly against the scalp, just like he used to do to help Shawn sleep on those nights when he couldn't. Finally, Chris's eyes were closed, his breathing changed, the trails of tears stopped. Bret wiped the corner of Chris's eye with his thumb, where those tiny wrinkle lines were. He rolled over, staring at the ceiling, a jumble of thoughts crashing through his head.

Vince had asked him to stay with WWE, behind the scenes of course, helping out some of the youngsters, and pitching ideas to Creative—who needed all the help they could get so it seemed. Bret had quickly turned Vince down. It was enough that he'd done as much as he had, he sure as hell wasn't going to work for McMahon's company again. Yet now, something compelled him to take out his cell, and study it. _I'm going to regret this…_Bret mentally growled at himself, as his thumbs fumbled with the tiny buttons on the keyboard.

_I've reconsidered. I'll come back to the company, on one condition. _

Bret sent the text message to one Vincent Kennedy McMahon. The condition? He was going to personally see to it that Chris got what he deserved, at least in the ring. Chris was going to get the title, and the respect he deserved, or Bret's deal to work for McMahon was off the table. He tossed his phone to the side, and wondered again what he was doing. Maybe this was his way of trying to make up for so many wrongs he'd committed to others over the years, or maybe Chris was right. Maybe he just had a weakness for pretty blonds.

**~}|{~**

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_**A/N: Yes, there's another note at the end. Have mercy, what have I gotten myself into this time?**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thank you all who reviewed. I wanted to shoot this chp in its head b/c of all the drama, but it's finally done. Hope you enjoy!**_

_

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_Every word seemed to roll off your tongue, like honey on my lips,  
I never thought I could get enough.  
You took me around the block, but I couldn't stop,  
I thought it was real.  
The rush, so intoxicated, I look back and I hated,  
That I couldn't tell._

_-x-_

_A gypsy woman told my fortune, said I'll be rich someday  
She said I'll be king and ruler, in a land of misery and pain  
I'm tired of the rain that keeps falling, falling down on me  
Please help me find some shelter, from the pain that's pouring on me._

_-x-_

_But love would fall to pieces in the rain  
Who would know better than you  
A hundred love letters and none of them true_

_

* * *

  
_

"What, so you're not talking to me now?" Hunter pouted, leaning closer to Shawn, and stroking at his hair. Shawn batted his hands away, and tried to scowl, but each time he shifted his eyes over towards his pouting lover lying next to him on the bed, the angry look crumbled a little. So did the vow of ignoring Hunter that he'd sworn to, because that man was just so damn irritating.

"Fine, what Hunter? Just stop—stop pawing at me." Shawn smacked at the fingers again, this time when they tried to stroke his stubbly cheek. Hunter couldn't help but laugh because Shawn ended up smacking himself in the face instead. "You think this is funny?" Shawn grumped. "Just like you thought that stunt you pulled earlier in the bar was funny, too?" He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed, staring up at the ceiling.

"You're upset about that thing with Chris? Come on, it's just Chris." Hunter scoffed, hovering his lips near Shawn's ear. The smaller blond fidgeted and shivered at the warm breath moistening the cartilage shell, and he finally rolled over to face Hunter and press his ticklish ear into the pillow.

"Not Chris, really. I meant Bret. Hunter, you're doing it again."

"Why does it matter? It's not like Bret's gonna be sticking around here anyway. He's probably gone already, adios!" Hunter waved his hand in a goodbye gesture as he smirked down at Shawn.

"I just wanted things to go smoothly, okay? Is that too much to ask for just _one_ time? This stuff has dragged on for twelve years."

"And in one night, with a hug and a handshake it's just gone? Okay, that's why when you came over to get me at Bret and Chris's table, your first reaction was to glare at said gotten-over-ex-lover and ask him if he put Chris up to the fight because he hated me. That's really a sign of closure."

"Shut up." Shawn jerked Hunter's pillow out from under his head, and then whacked him with it a couple times.

"Being beaten with a pillow signifies that I'm right."

"Shut up!" _Whap-whap-whack._ Shawn gave the pillow a hefty toss, and it flew across the room and landed in a lump on the floor. "That's where you can sleep. Get out of my bed." Shawn rolled away from Hunter, this time the scowl on his face less likely to be melted away so easily.

"Tantrum!" Hunter mocked, rolling his eyes as he slid out of bed and padded over to the abused pillow. "I bet you never made Bret sleep on the floor when you two fought. And God knows, that was enough. Oh…that's right Shawn. When you and Bret fought you came and slept…with _me._"

"Well then shouldn't you be thanking Bret instead of hating him for how he treated me, breaking my heart so I could come cry to you!" Shawn yelled, pulling the covers around himself, trying not to cry.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"You're jealous of a man I haven't seen for twelve years. You're impossible!"

"Maybe you haven't seen him for twelve years, but that doesn't mean you haven't loved him for twelve years."

Shawn didn't answer that time. His tears were running hotly onto his pillow case and into his hair. He and Hunter had this conversation, or varying versions of it for years now. Hunter knew that yes—he still loved Bret—but he knew that Shawn loved him too. Sometimes, Shawn wasn't sure _how_ he loved Hunt, but he did. The same could be said for Bret, after the roller coaster ride that had been, and in some ways he'd never gotten to get out off the ride. That was mainly because of Montreal constantly being thrown up in his face--which was what Monday Night Raw had intended to put to rest. It didn't do as much good as others thought though. Montreal was really only one pinprick in a time line of pinpricks, although perhaps that one had turned out to be the bloodiest, and maybe the deepest so-to-speak. Putting all the other things to rest, the things that happened when the lights were off, the ring was torn down, and the fans were gone, was a whole other situation completely.

Shawn sighed, as he rubbed at his eyes. He could hear Hunter shifting, and moving on the floor. As much as he didn't want it to, it was bothering him. Hunter was such a jerk! But apparently, he wasn't enough of a jerk for Shawn to leave him on the floor for more than a couple minutes.

"Come back to bed." Shawn grumbled, wiping at his wet eyes.

"Huh?"

"I said get your stupid ass back in bed."

Hunter plucked up the pillow and bounded over like a puppy dog. He snuggled up to Shawn and draped his arm over the smaller mans' body.

"I'm sorry Shawn, don't cry, baby. Look, I'm an asshole, does that make it all better?" Hunter kissed Shawn's shoulder softly, sweeping his golden hair out of the way.

"Don't push your luck."

_Why does it matter? It's not like Bret's gonna be sticking around anyway. He's probably gone already, adiós! _

It mattered because just as much as part of him wanted to go on hating Bret, another part of Shawn didn't want Bret to be gone--not again.

**~}|{~**

The first thing in Chris's blurry mind when he woke up, but for good reasons decided to keep his eyes closed, was Paul. He growled a little, upset that the giant had been the last thing he could remember thinking of last night, and the first when the thick sleep of an alcohol tide rolled out and allowed his mind some recovery. He couldn't believe that Paul just dropped him as soon as their tag team was split. Sure, they'd had a few minor arguments outside the ring but didn't all couples? To Chris it had seemed like nothing life-threatening. They probably weren't, they were just more excuses Paul could use to justify the break-up.

_I'm finished with you._

Chris thought he was doing a favor by proposing that his new tag team partner, after Adam's injury, be The Big Show. It had been Chris's idea altogether, obviously creative couldn't do anything too brilliant on their own. Chris had also been the one to come up with the brief anti-Cena that Miz went through, when he kept trying to call Cena out on Raw. It was supposed to amount to a lot more than it had, it could have been pure greatness, but Creative decided to trash any potential if it related to anti-Cena. Apparently in the WWE Universe, everyone loved the company's resident Superman. But anyway, Chris had found it only logical that Jericho would choose The Big Show as his replacement tag-partner. The guy was huge, what other reason was needed? Jericho was smart and what better way to crush your opponents, than standing back in a pair of glittery trunks and throwing a nearly 500 pound bald-anvil at them.

He couldn't believe that the whole time, he was only being manipulated and used. Maybe Chris Jericho was a lot smarter than Chris Irvine the King of Failed Relationships, because surely Chris Jericho would have noticed what his blind self couldn't. Paul was just using him for the push he was getting in the ring, and in the bedroom shoving his small blond lover into the mattress.

At least Chris had thought _lover_ had been the appropriate title. Maybe it should have been _toy._ There was no one else who understood, or cared to understand, how Chris could fall for Paul of all people. It was the topic of many jokes and rudeness when Paul wasn't around to loom over them and without a word scare them into silence. Paul had played him so well, he'd been so caring, so kind, he'd been protective, but then even a cat will hiss at another Tom if it comes too near the mouse it's batting between its paws. That doesn't mean the cat loves it. But it had felt so good to be held in those big, secure arms. It was comforting when Paul's immense hand circled his, making it seem like it belonged to a child, and Chris could feel the warmth blooming in his chest at the thought that such a strong, and gentle hand sheltered and held his heart. _I love you Chris, always. _His voice assured, in that low rumbling tone that could lay all of Chris's fears to rest, like the roll of retreating thunder, ushering out a long weathered-storm.

Tears steadily built and stung behind his closed eyes, and his chest started to ache pitifully with the sob that wanted to crawl up his throat. He wished his heart wasn't so blind, that he couldn't tell truth from carefully crafted fiction. He rolled over and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He opened his eyes as his feet connected with the soft carpet, and wet tracks made their slow journeys down the curves of his cheeks. With a sniffle he got up, taking his steps carefully as dizziness seesawed through his head, and waves of sickness sloshed around his belly.

He trudged his way to the mini-bar and pulled out a bottle. For a moment he just stared at it, remembering the man who was still curled up in the bed behind him, and the promise he'd made to him. The words seemed fuzzy through the haze of last nights still lingering alcohol, but he did remember them. He told—no he promised Bret that he'd try. Starting the day off by downing more liquid brain killer was probably not the best way to start off an attempt to fulfill that promise. But he wanted it so bad, because it made things hurt a little less. He wanted to pop off the top, slip inside, and say goodbye to it all as his head ducked under the smooth surface. He could look at the world through an amber tint as he drowned.

Chris rolled the bottle between his hands, imagining the warmth that would trickle down his throat and spread through his chest and belly as it worked its temporary magic. Its burn was kind of like the bloom of warmth his heart had felt when it had mistakenly thought it was loved, finally. But turns out the kind of mock-feeling brought from a swallow from this bottle was a lot emptier behind the initial blaze. After waging the mental battle for just a few moments longer, the enemy won out and his fingers plucked the cap away and tilted the bottle to his lips. It wasn't as if it mattered that much anyway, he could wrestle better buzzed or hung-over than the majority of the roster could stone cold sober. _Preach on that, Mr. Punk_. Chris thought, as he took another hearty swallow. _Stow away in a bottle, just like a gene. Deep inside is a hiding place, with walls of haunting mirrors. Rub the bottle, make a wish, but all you get are tears._

He needed to stop this. By now, he should be used to this feeling of heartache. It should be his friend with as often as it came to visit. _Just one more drink._ That sounded like a decent idea, and he was going to make the last one long, more of a guzzle than a sip. The soft hand at his shoulder startled him, the bottle froze at a half way point to his mouth. He glanced up and over his shoulder at Bret who was shaking his head, his brown-gray hair sleep tousled around his face.

"I was gunna put it up." Chris pouted, screwing the cap back onto the bottle.

"Good, because drunkenness doesn't suit you." Bret said, ruffling Chris's hair.

He took the bottle from Chris's hand, and went to put it back into cabinet. When he turned back, he smiled a little, but it wasn't really a happy smile. Chris was pouting even more, his lower lip pushed out a bit, the sadness clearly darkening his eyes more than a childish act.

"Don't give me that look Irvine." Bret stood next to the blond with the blood shot eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, the best thing for a hangover is a good rousing workout—sweat it out. After I shower, we'll go down."

"I don't want to go right now." Chris whined. "I'm going back to bed until we have to check out."

"No you're not, and it wasn't a question." Bret said, smirking as he patted Chris's arm, and brushed by him to head towards the bathroom.

Chris turned around to watch Bret duck into the bathroom, and blinked. What just happened? Did Bret really just forbid him from sleep unless he could manage to catch a few winks on the treadmill? Scowling, Chris went over to the bed and curled up in the middle of it, buried in blankets and pillows. In what only seemed like a few moments later, the blankets were pealed back. He pulled his knees up closer to his chest and grumbled.

"Haven't we already had this conversation?" Bret said, taking the pillows from under Chris's head and dropping them on the floor.

"Eh?" Chris squinted an eye at him.

"You heard me. Get up, Dungeon kids aren't lazy."

Chris rolled out of bed for the second time that day. He sat mumbling on the side of the bed as Bret rummaged through his suitcase and tossed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to the blond.

"I'm not a kid, Bret. I'm not nineteen anymore." Chris grumped, as he stood up to rid himself of his slept-in jeans and trade them for the sweats.

"You're what—forty now? That's still a kid in the book of an old man like myself."

"Thrity-nine." Chris corrected, finishing dressing and running a hand through his hair.

"Thirty-nine, well then, even better." Bret said, moving closer to Chris.

"Bret I really don't feel like--"

"Less moving these cheeks…" Bret patted Chris's face with the palm of his hand. "And more moving those cheeks." He added, swatting at Chris's ass.

"Bret!"

"Go!"

"But--"

"Yes, you have a butt. Now, move it!"

**~}|{~**

Bret smirked as he watched Chris reluctantly climb onto the treadmill and set it on a ridiculously low setting. He couldn't help but let his eyes migrate for a moment to Chris's rear as it moved in those sweatpants, as his feet made half-hearted strides on the moving black belt. He remembered when Chris used to try and sneak looks at his crotch or rear when he thought Bret wasn't looking, but Bret had always noticed. The glances seemed curious, and almost unsure, as if the mischievous cobalt eyes didn't really want to look, but were drawn to anyway. Bret had returned the glances many times, only he was stealthier about doing it and Chris never let on any signs of realizing it.

Bret drew his eyes away, and moved towards the machine. He reached over and dialed up the speed on the treadmill to something more reasonable—a pace that would actually break a sweat.

"I had it on hang-over mode." Chris whined, reaching for the button to move the speed back down. His hand was stopped with a hard slap, as though he was a child reaching for that one specific thing he'd been told not to touch. His scowl deepened, he was certainly not in the mood for this at all. The only running Chris wanted to do was to run away from the things that hurt him, yet they always seemed to circle him in laps.

"There is no hang-over mode in The Dungeon." Bret informed him. He leaned back against an empty machine and watched the expressions and emotions play over Chris's features and darken them.

"Bret, this isn't The Dungeon, this is the Ramada." Chris said between breaths, as he kept up with the fast pace.

"Christopher, The Dungeon is not a specific place. The Dungeon resides in the hearts of all of its children no matter where we are. So quit bitching. When did you get so whiney anyway? I don't remember you being such a girl."

"I'm not—a girl." Chris panted, as Bret upped the speed one more notch. "And that line was—really—corny. You've just been waiting to use that one haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Look at those tits bounce!" Someone cat-called from the other side of the gym. It was followed by a whistle and a bout of giggling.

"Christina got some junk in her trunk!"

Chris whipped his head around, glaring daggers, trying to pin-point who was making fun of his current state of Hart-induced misery. The action proved to be a huge mistake, as he lost his concentration on the fast moving belt beneath his feet and fell flat on his back hard—jarring the machine. It stopped automatically, and Bret leaned over him as his vision swam for a moment. The original giggles that caused his mishap were now full blown gales of laughter.

"Ow." Chris grunted, groaning as he blinked up at the ceiling.

"Ow? You're a wrestler, you fall down all the time. There is no 'ow'. Get up." Bret said, not even bothering to extend his hand.

"What if I don't?" Chris bit out, just to be spiteful.

"Then I'm going to step on you." Bret said simply. _If it takes annoying the hell out of you to get that spit-fire back in you then I'll do that too. This gloomy stuff isn't gonna cut it._

With a grumble Chris got up to his feet, and rubbed the back of his head.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a pain in the ass?" Chris barked, snatching the bottle of water that Bret held in his hand.

"Not many people would have the balls big enough to say that to me." Bret said, handing Chris a towel.

"Well, consider my nut-sack big enough, because you certainly are a _huge_ pain in the asski."

"You didn't mind when you were nineteen." Bret said, grinning as Chris quirked an eyebrow. They walked out of the gym, past Randy, Ted, and Cody who had been the ones making the damning jokes that landed Chris on said junky ass.

"You're taking my words out of context." Chris said, gulping some water.

He had to admit, even though Bret was being pushy, he was glad to have the company. Bret was somehow managing to drive some of his depression away with his oh-so-gentle manner and techniques. Chris knew had he been alone he would have been in much worse shape than just having the fleeting remains of a hang-over, a bump on the back of his head, and a bruised ego because of those goons Legacy. Some people just didn't know when to keep their mouths shut, and Chris was just glad that he wasn't one of those people.

"Not to mention you're so old I doubt you remember very little about my ass or the size of my goods."

"You don't know when to quit do you Chris?" Bret said, pretending to be offended. "Your words cut me, they really do. Look, I'm in tears." Bret said, as he pressed his hand to his chest. "My heart is breaking. As for the holes in my aging mind, well I only remember things that impress me, so obviously, this is not the fault of my lacking mind but the fault of your lacking luggage."

"Remind me why I missed you? Oh yeah, you're so loving and kind." Chris grinned sarcastically, draping his arm over Bret's shoulders.

"Always." Bret said, returning the impish grin, with just as much sarcasm dripping.

They made their way over to the breakfast area to grab a quick bite before heading back to the room so Chris could shower, they could pack, and check out. Chris reached for an over-sized muffin in a plastic wrapper, but Bret quickly snagged it away and replaced it with a glossy red apple. Chris looked stunned, and that pout was back on his face making Bret laugh.

"You're such a child!" He chuckled as guided Chris away from the table by his elbow.

"But you stole my muffin." Chris blinked down at the little sticker on the apple in his hand, then back at Bret.

"I'm an old man, as is professed by The Great and All Knowing Chris Jericho. Therefore I can eat whatever the hell I want. I don't have to worry about this anymore." Bret said, patting Chris's belly. "You on the other hand are more suited to the apple. Eating muffins equals looking like a muffin."

"I don't like apples!"

"I don't like fat people." Bret said simply, and bit into the muffin that he'd freed from the package.

"Hey, are you saying I'm fat?" Chris called, as Bret sauntered to the elevator. The dark haired man turned around before the doors dinged open, and shrugged a shoulder, smirking.

"Take the stairs, Christina!" Bret said with a laugh, as the metal doors closed on him, and Chris's humorously shocked expression.

**~}|{~**

Shawn had been up most of the night, unable to sleep because of the jumble and turmoil of thoughts that tumbled through his head. He'd ended up seated at breakfast with Hunter, poking at the toast in front of him. He didn't feel hungry at all, and he couldn't concentrate on anything Hunter was saying. He nodded his head once in a while, but he had no idea. He might have acted like seeing Bret again was no big deal to him in the ring, but that was all storyline bravado. Outside, it ate at him. Bret made him question his heart. Bret toppled Shawn into a sea of confusion. Bret made Shawn forget who he loved and why and whether or not it was strong enough, or good enough, or full enough.

"Damn it." Shawn cursed softly, crumbling off the corner of his toast and watching the dark pieces sift through his fingers.

Hunter didn't say anything. He knew exactly what was bothering Shawn and he didn't like it all. Shawn always told him that this stuff with Bret was over, and yet his emotions said different from his words. He must have taken Hunter for a fool, or else he just didn't want to hurt him with the truth. _That Shawn loves Bret more than he could ever love you. That Shawn would go back to Bret given the chance…and now he has that chance. _Hunter fidgeted as he watched Shawn's eyes drift to some far away place, a wedge of bread hung between his fingers like some sort of awkward toasted cigarette. In Hunter's mind, Shawn would be stupid for still loving Bret. Bret had never loved Shawn the way he deserved to be loved. Bret had never loved Shawn the way Hunter did.

"You wanna go talk to him? Then go Shawn." Hunter said coolly, leaning back in his chair.

Shawn narrowed his eyes at Hunter. How dare he pretend that Shawn needed his permission to go speak with Bret—or anyone else, for that matter. Shawn huffed, and pushed away from the table. He stood up and ran his hand over his half-ponytail.

"Well, maybe I will."

Hunter stiffened at that a little. Shawn going up to Bret's room _alone_ was not top on Hunter's list of Good Ideas. Shawn wasn't known for his ability to resist certain temptations, and especially when that temptation wore pink and black. If Hunter found out that anything more than talking went on in that room, things were going to be much less than pretty. Shawn belonged to Hunter now, those were the facts and that was how things were going to stay. Hunter gave Shawn a look, that had jealously written all over it. Shawn had about enough of Hunter's insecurities for one day (and even longer) and leaned on the table, bending near Hunter's face.

"What's wrong Hunt…don't you trust me?" Shawn said lowly, and smirked, blue eyes blazing, before he straightened up, and walked away from his frowning lover.

Shawn walked through the halls until he found the room number that belonged to The Hitman. He knocked lightly, and right away Bret was at the door. His dark eyes flicked over Shawn, his lips in a line that revealed little about what he was thinking or feeling.

"Yeah?"

"Bret. Uh…" Shawn shifted from foot to foot nervously. "Can I…I want to ask you a question I have to get off my chest."

"Hm, I thought maybe you were coming to apologize for that scene at the bar."

Shawn rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, Hunt was out of line. He's been kind of on edge lately."

Bret laughed a little, and leaned against the door frame.

"You can tell him I have no interest in stealing away his princess." Bret half-smiled, taking in the way Shawn's face fell a bit at that statement. "I told you Shawn, this whole thing…" Bret motioned between himself and the blond man looking pitiful in the hallway. "Is done with."

"But Bret, don't you still feel anything? Don't you…do you still love me?" Shawn asked quietly, wondering how Bret couldn't still feel something—he had to. Bret reached for Shawn, and took his hand.

"Listen Shawn, it's really simple. Yeah, I still love you, but I'm tired of loving you. Loving you is fucking exhausting, and I'm tired of being weary from it. Aren't you?"

Shawn couldn't bring himself to look into Bret's eyes. He didn't want to believe him, this wasn't how he had imagined things. He'd somehow imagined that he and Bret would have one last time together, and then it would all be over. There had to be more than a hug and a handshake…Hunter was right. There had to be more than Bret's hand holding his right now and softly stroking it. Shawn felt the familiar prickle of tears at his eyes, and slid his hand away. His face held the look of devastation.

"I…I-I just thought…"

"Shawn, I can't believe you sometimes." Bret shook his head. "Believe it or not angel, people _can_ get over you. It might take a hell of a long time but it can and has been done."

"But Bret--" Shawn stopped, the whine hanging in his voice, as his eyes spied movement over Bret's shoulder. He moved around so he could see better, and his eyes widened.

"Chris?" Shawn hissed lowly, having seen the blond moving around the room with a towel clinging to his waist. "Chris stayed here last night? With you—you slept with him?"

"Whoah, back up. Yes, that would be Chris. Yes, he stayed with me last night. He was drunk off his ass if you don't recall—and no I didn't sleep with him. Even so, it's no business of yours who I have in my room or what I might do with them." Bret added, glaring a bit at Shawn who seemed actually offended that Chris was in Bret's room.

"I know how you are Bret, you take advantage of those weaker than you."

"You're saying Chris is weak?"

"Excuse me." A third voice said, the topic of their conversation stood next to Bret wearing just his jeans, a t-shirt clutched in one hand. "Out of you and Bret only one of you has taken advantage of me and that would be the one who has less hair." Chris frowned, grabbing a piece of Shawn's golden hair and tugging at it. Shawn batted his hand away. In Chris's mind, all of Shawn's promised words mingled with Paul's and swirled together in nothing more than a dirge of hurtful lies.

"You're still hanging onto that? That was back in what—2007 or so?"

"2007 is a lot more relevant than 1997." Chris pointed out, with a scowl.

"Don't even compare Bret and I to the short time that we were together, Chris. It's not my fault you were easy, _and_ stupid enough to think I loved you." Shawn practically spat.

His hurt from Bret's rejection seethed out of him and splattered like acid onto Chris, who was clearly upset at the icy bite of his words. Chris's mouth dropped open in shock, in a moment that was indeed a rare occurrence, he had no words. Bret snorted incredulously, wagging his finger at Shawn.

"Wait, the Heartbreak Slut just had the nerve to call someone else out for being 'easy'?"

"You take that back!" Shawn barked, stomping his foot.

"No need to tune up the band…I think this ridiculous conversation is over. Go back to Big Nose and play with his glow stick." Bret said, pulling the door closed on a raging Michaels.

Chris was still a bit stunned by Shawn's accusation. Bret patted his chest, snapping him out of it, the feeling of Bret's hand against his skin making him shiver like it would have twenty years ago.

"Don't worry about it kid. It's just Shawn, he's a drama queen. He's just got his panties in a bunch because I've finally came to the point that I'm able to drop him. It feels pretty good too, Chris. Feels like a huge weight off my chest, although Shawn seems to want to try dropping it on me again."

"Don't let him." Chris said sternly, taking Bret's hand. "Life's too short to live it crushed under the weight of someone elses loss."

"I know that too well." Bret smiled, a little sadly at the handsome blond with the forlorn eyes, and drew him in for a hug. He was determined at some point to see the lively spark which once inhabited them, glitter once more. Despair and loneliness just didn't suit their beautiful cerulean depths. Bret whispered against his ear: "That's good advice, Chris. Please, remember it."


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Yeah…I know Chris isn't on Raw. Well, he is in this story because I'm writing this, not Creative. Raw needs Jericho! Stop the Jericho Embargo! Okay…I'll stop. I don't need to get into a rant here lol. Something Show said, the concept is just twisted into something I like better—yeah I pretty much made up my own version of Raw. Basically, this is in place of the Raw which had Napoleon Dynamite dude and Nash Bridges dude hosting. Also, I did not make up 'The Big Shiz' just sayin, I have no credit for that. Don't know who does! ;) Enjoy the chapter!**_

I came to play  
There's a price to pay  
Time for you to get down on your knees and pray  
I came to pay  
Say goodbye to the good old days  
They're never coming back

~x~

One, two, you hear the clock tickin'?  
Tick-tock, you 'bout to stop livin'  
Tick-tock, I want you to remember me

~x~

* * *

Bret had gotten his response from Stephanie McMahon early that morning. He'd opened his phone to find a number flashing across the screen, and listened to it. The first words were simple and to the point: Welcome back. She'd over viewed some sketchy plans, some of which involved Bret and The Hart Dynasty. Mainly he'd just be around for moral support, some promos, maybe some old school managerial type interference if the situation called for it. His main job was to pitch ideas to the Creative staff though. That he couldn't wait to do—he'd like to tell a few of them to shove their 'writing skills' up their asses. It wasn't that he particularly wanted to help McMahon succeeded, it wasn't for McMahon at all. It was just for the fact that a lot of the things he saw on Vince's programming today, especially Raw, left him disgruntled with what wrestling was becoming. As a Hart, he couldn't just sit back and watch as the thing he loved seemed to get whored out for ugly t-shirts and glow sticks. Maybe he could make some sort of difference, maybe not, but hell he was at least going to try. Then, there was Chris.

In the short time he'd been re-united with one of his old students and colleagues, he'd had this 'need' to take care of him. Maybe in some way, it made him feel young again, to have Chris under his wing again. To others on the outside, it probably looked a bit weird, but there were many common threads that ran through both men's veins, and Bret could feel it. Well, maybe except for the music Chris was fond of.

Bret eyed Chris warily as he drove, belting out metal lyrics with that I-player thing hooked to his ears. It wasn't something he really wanted to wake up to after his long nap, it was rather unsettling how little Chris seemed to be paying attention to what he was actually doing, and Bret couldn't help but wonder how long Chris had been driving like this and putting Bret's sleeping life in danger. The older man laughed a little, and startled Chris by tugging one of the buds out of his ears.

"Chauffer, I plan to get to the arena in one piece—or at least as many pieces as my body is in at the moment." Bret flicked Chris's arm, earning one of those lopsided grins of his.

"Yes sir." Chris chirped, straightening up at the wheel and looking comically serious. Bret laughed. "We're almost there anyway."

"Ah. I've missed silly little things like this, just being on the road. It gets old when you're doing it all the time, but then once you pull over and park yourself for good, it seems foreign to stay in one place for so long."

"I'd rather be in Calgary than in Indiana." Chris said, smiling when he saw the arena come into sight. "If I see another cornfield, I'm gonna put it in The Walls of Jericho and make it into a field of popcorn."

Bret and Chris laughed as they pulled into the arena, and Chris grabbed his bag and his suit from the car. On the way in they breezed past several co-workers standing around. Near one of dressing rooms stood that nights guest host: Peyton Manning, chatting with a few of the others. Chris ducked into his dressing room, and quickly changed as Bret waited outside, listening to the conversation between Manning and the others. Mike "The Miz" was trying his usual suck-up routine, his title belt draped over his shoulder as he bobbled his head arrogantly and tried to engage Peyton, as he shot off at the mouth about how the Browns were better than the Colts.

Chris came out, fiddling with the tie draped around his neck. His eyes cut to Big Show, who was hanging around with the few others around Peyton. The big guy grinned mockingly at Chris, and rested his elbow on The Miz's shoulder. Chris pulled his gaze away, feeling the familiar hurt tangle in his chest. He'd heard the rumors that flew around since last week—since Paul had made the break-up painfully official. Word was that Mike, who Chris had been personally coaching for some months now, was Paul's new lover. The worst of the rumors whispered that Mike and Paul had even been carrying on before Paul had broken up with Chris, both of them playing him as a fool right under his nose. Chris cursed, his now shaking fingers not working for him. He tore the tie from around his neck and angrily slung it to the floor. Paul and Mike snorted and chuckled. Bret glared at them both, and bent to pick up the offensive accessory.

He brushed off the silk material, and hung it back around Chris's neck, his fingers easily making the knot, and sliding it into place, adjusting it so it was just perfect. Their eyes met, Bret silently reminding Chris that he was better than both of those two, the strong, earth-tone depths both stern and comforting at the same time. Bret's fingers brushed against the ticklish skin of Chris's neck as he fixed his collar, and he smiled as his hand ran down Chris's chest, tucking the end of the tie into his suit jacket, then smoothing it out. They shared slight smiles, that were both broken by childish wolf-whistles and howls from the surrounding men. Bret just rolled his eyes, patting Chris's shoulder, as Chris scowled just like his persona.

"Shut up, you parasites!" He barked at them.

"So it's true Chris, that you're keeping old man Hart for a pet now?" Paul asked, his eyes glimmering as he sneered.

"Listen here, you overgrown fu--" Chris started to advance on his former tag-team partner and lover, but Bret put a hand to his chest, and urged him back. Chris's eyes stayed held to Paul's, burning with a fiery contempt, as Peyton was led away to do his job that night.

"Aw, Christina…you're always one to yap-yap-yap without having the actions to back it up." Miz mocked, making his hand into a mouth and moving it opened, closed, and opened again.

"I can back up everything I say, I'm the best in the world at what I do, both in and out of the ring. That's why--" Chris started, but was again interrupted, as Miz arrogantly sauntered up and peeked over Bret's shoulder.

"Really Chris, really? So, that's why Paul felt the need to come to me on the nights when you were too tired to--"

"Enough!" Bret shouted, turning to Miz, and jabbing a finger into his chest. "You oughta learn to show some respect for the veterans in the company. I hear you sobbing and whining about how 'no one wants you here' and 'no one respects you' all the time. Well listen here kid, you know _nothing_ about respect…and probably just as much about wrestling had Chris not been kind enough to take you and try to make something out of your punk self."

Paul reached between the two, and easily moved Miz aside before the young man could say anything more. The giant towered over both Bret and Chris, glaring down at the older man. After a moment, Miz tugged at Big Show's singlet, and situated his belt over his shoulder.

"I gotta go." He said to the big man, before skirting around Bret and Chris.

**~}|{~**

"Welcome to Monday Night--" The Miz's music hit, _I came to play--_interrupting Peyton Manning's words and the excited response of the crowd to their hometown hero which quickly turned to boos.

"Really, Peyton Manning, Really?" Miz taunted, as he walked towards the ring confidently, his chin up as he welcomed the rain of jeers from the packed arena. He ducked under the ropes, and walked near Manning who looked annoyed, and rather unimpressed with the cocky young man bobbling his head. "No one cares about you. These people didn't tune in to Monday Night Raw to see a football goon!" The boos rang louder, and a beginning chant of 'Miz is Awful' began to be heard through the shouts. "All these people in this arena and sitting at home paid for their tickets, and turned on their t.v.s to see me! I'm the only superstar worth watching on this show, I'm the most charismatic, athletic, and gifted athlete on Raw—in the whole WWE even! Do you know why, Manning?"

"No, I don't know why…but I'm sure you're gonna tell me, aren't you?" Manning asked, rolling his eyes.

"'Cause I'm The Miz—AND I'M!" There was a pause, as Miz's cobalt eyes burned over the faces in the crowd, all of them waiting to echo his catchphrase with the word 'awful'. Just as he opened his mouth to yell his greatness into the soft black head of the microphone, it was his turn to be interrupted.

_One-two, you here the clock ticking? Tick-tock, you about to stop living._

M.V.P. made his way to the ring, to a rise of cheers from the sea of people. He stepped up close to Miz, the two of them dueling for a moment with their eyes before M.V.P. spoke.

"You really out here insulting the great Peyton Manning?" M.V.P asked, incredulously. The response from the fans grew louder, urging him on. "Why you gotta come out here, and run off yo' mouth while this man tryin' to run a show here. Ain't none a'these fine people up in here wanna see you!" He jabbed his finger into Miz's chest, punctuating the last word with his action, as Miz cocked his head and frowned, his eyes wide.

"Really M.V.P--"

"Yeah, REALLY!"

_Break the walls down!_

Both men stopped, as Lawler shouted from ringside, his voice in that high pitched wail.

"Is it Chris Jericho?"

"He's not even supposed to be on Raw, King!" Michael Cole stated the obvious.

"It is!" King exclaimed, as Jericho sauntered out down the ramp, his face crumpled into a hateful glare. He joined the other three men in the ring, and for a moment stood scowling out over the audience, taking in their heat and using it to fuel is character.

"None of these gelatinous hypocrites want to see you, Miz…" Chris said, each word carefully measured, before he turned his hard eyes to M.V.P. "And they don't wanna see you, either. Everyone—each and every one of these troglodytes—knows that I am the only superstar worth having on this program. _I_ am the best in the world at what I do!" The boos and jeers came louder, laced with a few supportive Y2J chants here and there.

"You ain't even suppose to be here." M.V.P. cut in.

"That may be, but I'm standing here in this ring, and I have something to say to Peyton Manning here. I'm the backbone of the WWE, and you ought to pander to me—I've been mistreated! I've been abused by all of these tape-worms who just want to see Chris Jericho burned!" The heat built louder and louder, forcing Chris's voice to rise until he was shouting, pacing the ring. "I want—no I demand respect! I demand what I want, and you're gonna give it to me!"

"What is it you want?" Manning asked, as Jericho approached him and stood toe to toe. The look of anger on the blonds face shifted and wavered to one of hurt, his dazzling blue eyes seeming close to tears. The look made Manning flinch at the realness there, as if the storyline Creative had ran by him ran deeper than just Monday night.

"I want you to give me my partner back, my other half!" Chris demanded, his voice sounding almost broken. "We were unjustly separated! We've been condemned, and ostracized because of our greatness! I want---"

_Weeeeell it's The Big Show! _

Chris forced his softened gaze to The Big Show as the giant made his way up the ramp. Chris's throat became painfully constricted, as he knew the lines that were to come, and they hit all too close to home. Chris gripped the microphone as Paul stepped over the top rope, his eyes catching Chris's still in the cruel glimmer. He lumbered over to the small group already gathered in the ring, and as his music died down, Chris forced a smile onto his face, as though he was pleased and excited to see his ex-tag partner.

"Tell 'em Show!" Chris said, patting the big man's arm. "Tell him how we ought to be together again, tell him how you need me Show!" Chris urged, as M.V.P stood by shaking his head, and Miz looked bored.

"You want me to tell Peyton Manning to put us back together? You want me to tell him, to re-instate the greatest tag-team of all time?"

Jericho nodded and agreed eagerly.

"Tell him!"

Paul turned a stern glare towards Peyton, who looked a bit unnerved about it. He slowly turned back to Jericho, and bent close to him, their noses nearly touching as Chris seemed captivated with him. Big Show's microphone was the only thing that kept their lips from pressing together, in a moment that seemed eerily too intimate to be playing out on live t.v. The cameras roamed in for a close-up, showing oceanic eyes quivering, perhaps beneath tears.

"That's what you want Chris?"

There was a silence, in which Chris struggled to find his voice to say only one word. He finally managed to whisper it out, his voice sounding rough in that small moment, as if the word was a thorn clawing its way from his throat.

"Yes."

Paul was dragging this out longer than he was supposed to, he was deliberately making it hurt in front of a world-wide audience. He held Chris's eyes with his, hard and cold, until Chris's eyes were no more than puddles threatening to well over. Chris's lips were pressed tightly together, quivering, he shifted from foot to foot, never breaking Paul's pinning gaze. In his head he was pleading with himself to just hang on, not to cry right here in front of all these people. He mentally begged for Paul to stop dicking around with him, as the seconds seemed to not even drag by, but stop entirely.

"No." Paul finally spoke, the solitary word booming out in an icy declaration.

"What!" Lawler squawked.

"Chris Jericho doesn't know what to do King, he looks like he's about to cry!" Cole said, a hint of laughter apparent in his voice, not knowing that Chris's skilled acting wasn't an act at all. The way his expression was constricting, his lips pulling downwards into the most horrible frown, his brows tilting and slanting over his eyes, in that injured expression.

"No Chris, I don't want us to be back together. In fact, I don't _ever_ want anything to do with you again. There was no 'team' with you, Chris. It was _me_ I did all the hard work, I did all the heavy lifting--" Paul snorted. "You stood on _my_ shoulders."

Chris dropped his gaze from Paul's, his cheeks burning with embarrassment, because these crafted lines seemed to be exposing his personal life to millions, even though none of them knew the almost mirror truth that existed in them. His lashes blinked over his eyes, the tears no longer contained as they flowed warmly down his cheeks, drenching them and making them shimmer under the lights.

"He is!" King shouted. He and Cole obviously found it amusing. "Chris Jericho's crying!"

"Now wait a minute, look here." Peyton spoke up, finally coming between the four men in the ring. "Jericho here wants to tag, I think that's a good idea." Manning glanced over at Jericho, the look of confusion on his face clear since Paul had deviated from the script a little—which hadn't involved shedding of tears either. "I'm putting you four in a tag-team match tonight!"

At this, Chris was supposed to puff up about it, as though he was getting his way and Paul's say hadn't mattered after all. He tried, but he looked rather stupid attempting arrogance with tears still slowly trailing from his eyes.

"Chris Jericho--" Peyton announced, stopping to look at Chris again, and then towards his tag partner for that night. "…and M.V.P. against The Big Show, and The Miz!"

The crowd erupted in cheers.

"Did you hear that, King? Chris Jericho and M.V.P against The Big Show and The Miz!"

"Oh, I can't wait to see that, what a match up!"

**~}|{~**

Chris disappeared backstage, jerking away from a couple of hands that patted his shoulder and arm and offered congratulations on the kickass performance. He batted their hands away and quickly ducked into his dressing room, sinking down to the bench and slapping his palms against his face, angrily swiping away the tears.

He was thankful that at least he had time to calm down before the match. Their match was high on the card, right before the main event. The door to the dressing room opened, Chris heard it but didn't look up. Bret sat next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Chris, you okay?"

"Eh, whatever. Yeah I'm fine…as soon as I get to the ring." Chris glared. He tugged his tie loose and let it hang, then popped a couple buttons on his shirt.

"I'm guessing that wasn't supposed to happen."

"No." Chris growled. "Paul kind of…deviated from what we were supposed to do. He's such a fucking ass-hole!" Chris fumed.

"That's okay, he'll get what's coming to him." Bret said, watching Chris with a stern expression. "They always do."

The two of them sat quietly, watching the t.v. in the corner of the room as matches played out. After a couple of matches, Chris started to strip from his suit, carelessly tossing the pieces to the floor. Bret picked them up and put them on their hangers, smoothing and straightening them. They both stopped when a short, pre-taped, segment with Big Show and Miz came on. Josh Matthews was asking them about the match coming up that night.

"Josh, I have no worries about Miz and I beating M.V.P. and Chris Jericho. The Miz and I click so much better than I did with my old partner." Big Show added, and Chris turned away from the t.v. to lace his boots.

A few moments later, the segment with Chris and M.V.P. was on.

"M.V.P., tell me how you feel about facing The Miz tonight, and Jericho, how do you feel about facing your former tag-team partner, The Big Show?"

"I'll tell you how I feel about it, Josh." Chris heard his own voice, but it sounded strange to him. He tried to block it out as he went to the mirror and pretended to fix his hair. Bret watched from over his shoulder, hating how the usually confident Superstar was nervous and unsettled. When Chris made his way back over to the bench to grab his glittery kickpads, he caught the tail end of the segment.

"Jericho and I might play on different sides of the fence, but tonight—we got one thing in common! We gonna leave team 'The Big Shiz'…" M.V.P. finger-quoted, sarcastically. "All laid out in the ring--" M.V.P. touched his fist to his eye, and frowned, miming as if he were crying. "Bawlin'!" He laughed at the pun on his own catchphrase, and slapped Jericho on the back before leaving the blonde, who just scowled at Matthews.

Chris finished his primping and headed out to wait for the familiar sound of his music to hit, signaling his hip-walk to the ring. He easily slipped into his character, his real life emotions about this whole thing making the anger on his face seem palpable. Soon, all four men were in the ring, as Chris shouted things at Show he hoped the cameras or microphones couldn't quite pick up. Paul seemed to take it all in stride, just letting the spat curses and shouts roll of his broad back as he slipped out of the ring, allowing Miz to start and face off against M.V.P.

The match was a great one—worthy of main event status even. Miz's in-ring abilities were greatly improved and he M.V.P. worked well together. At first it was the red-suited Superstar who had the momentum behind him, until Miz landed a bulldog. The arrogant young wrestler sauntered around the ring, taunting, as M.V.P. rolled around and slowly got to his feet. He got behind Miz and rolled him up for a pin attempt—but Miz kicked out before the two count. They both regained their feet, and circled each other, Miz glaring as M.V.P. motioned to him with a 'bring it on' gesture. Miz rushed M.V.P., only to be snapped into a belly-to-belly suplex, slamming the young man to the matt. Miz writhed around for a moment, holding his lower back, as M.V.P. got the crowd behind him--then went to the corner where Jericho was eager for the tag. M.V.P. slapped his hand and nonchalantly ducked out of the ring as Jericho climbed in, and taunted the crowd as Miz got back to his feet. The two locked up, Jericho's heated gaze boring holes into The Miz.

"Tag him in!" Jericho shouted, waving a hand towards The Big Show.

"You want him?" Miz teased, the slow smile that stretched across his face holding some tint of cruelty. "Huh Jericho, you want the big man, little man!" Miz and Chris both advanced on each other, until they were toe to toe, nose to nose, shouting in each others faces.

"Tag him, tag him in!" Jericho continued to scream at The Miz, who shoved him away once only to have the blond back him into the turnbuckle, and wrap his hand around his throat.

"Tag him the fuck in!" Chris hissed lowly.

"Aw, you miss rolling around with your old 'partner'?" Miz mocked, faking a sad face.

Jericho growled, and climbed up the turnbuckle, straddling Miz, his boots on the second turnbuckle. He rained punches—real ones—into Miz's face, with each one sputtering and screaming for The Miz to tag in his partner. The crowd was going crazy, counting out each punch, their numbers shouted in unison almost drowning out Jericho's demand. After six too-many punches Miz grabbed Chris's waist and was able to toss him off, the older man landing on his back with a loud thump against the mat. Miz rubbed the side of his face, stumbling towards the corner where Big Show eagerly reached out his tree trunk arm. Miz slapped his huge palm, and just as The Big Show stepped over the ropes, Chris pulled himself up to his feet.

"Do you want me?" Big Show mocked, earning him a guttural shout, and Jericho's boot to his knee.

He wobbled but managed to stay up, his eyes narrowing at Chris in anger that he'd legitimately kicked him in one of his weakest points. He went to lunge for Chris, and was going to warn him not to play this fucking game, because the bigger man always won, when another sharp kick connected with the side of his knee, sending him toppling over onto the other one. Chris ran for him, and launched himself at the giants back, wrapping his arms around the wide, strong column of neck that he'd once kissed and whimpered into when they'd made love. Paul slowly got to his feet, with Chris still clinging to his neck, attempting to choke him. Paul just laughed at Chris's attempt, and backed into the turnbuckle hard, crushing Jericho between his weight and the corner again and again, until the blond's arms drooped from his neck and he slipped off of the giants back. Christ melted against the turnbuckle, his arms stretched across the red ropes to hold himself up, as he tried to catch the breath that had been forced out of his lungs.

The Big Show wandered to the middle of the ring, grinning widely as he waited for Chris to come around a just a little, before he barreled towards the corner, intent on a massive spear. At the last moment, Chris looked up and saw the giant hurtling towards him, and ducked out of the way. A unanimous moan sounded from the crowd, and exclamations from the announce team, as Big Show's shoulder struck the steel pole. Jericho stalked him, waiting for Show to untangle himself and turn around, before launching himself at the 7fter for the Codebreaker. The Big Show countered by catching Jericho in his own move, and simply tossing him to the mat. Show went to Chris and pulled him up from the mat, one hand wrapped in his short, bleached hair, and landed a big leg drop across Chris's chest, slamming him back to the canvas again. He covered Jericho, but he managed to kick out after just before the three.

Miz and M.V.P. were going crazy on the outside, yelling and stomping at their team mates. Big Show took his time, enjoying watching Chris writhe on the mat, breathing hard. He finally sauntered over and tagged in The Miz, who went for another quick cover—this time Jericho kicked out at two, and tried to get to M.V.P. who was seemingly losing his mind to get into the match. The Miz grabbed onto Jericho's ankle, dragging him back to the center of the ring, but Jericho pulled off a Enzuigiri clipping Miz in the back of the head with his boot, and successfully freeing himself to tag in M.V.P.

M.V.P. and The Miz battled for a bit longer, until The Miz was splayed out on the mat, and M.V.P. went for his Ballin' Elbow. Miz took the elbow and flopped around, before getting up and turning around, only to be caught in The Playmaker—but before M.V.P. could carry it out, The Big Show was over the ropes and landed a fist to M.V.P.'s back, allowing Miz to wiggle away, and causing the bell to be rang. After that, the match disintegrated into chaos. Jericho joined in, and it was a free for all as the announce team and crowd erupted. M.V.P. went again for the Playmaker, after Jericho had distracted The Big Show by working on that knee again, and Miz was planted into the canvas. The United States Champion quickly rolled out of the ring, swaying on his feet as he backed away.

M.V.P. leaned over the ropes, shaking the top one and yelling things to The Miz as he retreated, holding his gold above his head as a reminder of who was still better in his book. Meanwhile, Jericho was hung up on the ropes, and Show was setting up to spear him to the outside. The giant stomped across the ring like a careening freight train, and for the second time that night his spear attempt was thwarted. Jericho grabbed the top rope and yanked it down, sending Show flying of his own accord over and into a massive heap on the outside. Chris backed away from the ropes, sweat pouring from his face and wetting his hair down, as M.V.P. moved towards him, and hoisted his arm up signaling a victory. Chris nodded at M.V.P., seeming to confirm their victory, and then moved around the ring.

Chris raised his fist, taunting and wordlessly bragging, as M.V.P. stood at the other side of the ring performing his Ballin' taunt as the crowd joined in—Jericho measured him up. M.V.P. turned around to find Jericho, and too late saw him running. M.V.P. toppled backwards over the top rope via a clothesline from Chris Jericho, who signaled for a microphone. One was handed to him, and he moved to the center of the ring, panting.

"You know what, Big Show…you're right." He barked. "Our tag-team doesn't need to be back together, because I don't need you anymore! I don't need you to win matches, I don't need you to back me up, I don't need you to obtain gold—and I'm gonna prove it to you—and all you mindless sheep!" Jericho added to the crowd, who was now booing and jeering. "That's right, boo Chris Jericho! Boo me, I don't care! I'm gonna show all of you gelatinous parasites that Chris Jericho needs no one when I win the Royal Rumble, and become the last man standing—alone!" With that, Chris dropped the microphone, and rolled out of the ring.

**~}|{~**


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: I am reeeeally sorry about how long it's taken to get this next chapter done. Blame it on HBK cause he was being difficult in this chapter. Hope it works, and hope you like it! Thanks for reading and/or reviewing! *loves*  
**_

I only wanted you to know that  
I always had the best of intentions  
Look at what you put me through  
Anything I would have done for you  
But it's not how it used to be  
When you and I were hooked on each others dreams  
Got stuck in reality

~x~

But what do you say to taking chances,  
What do you say to jumping off the edge?  
Never knowing if there's solid ground below  
Or a hand to hold, or hell to pay,  
What do you say,  
What do you say?

~x~

* * *

Bret and Chris made their way through the shadowy parking lot, dodging a few puddles of water that had collected from an earlier rain. Oily automobile innards whirled in hypnotic little swirls and rainbows against the gray, dark-stained cement. There were only a few vehicles left, strewn around here and there like miniature playthings of a child god who left them carelessly out of their celestial toy box. The drip of water from a few lazy, lingering, clouds plinked and pattered in a kind of rhythm into the existing puddles and against the car bodies in a way that was both steady and unique in its timing. The drum of watery jewels against dirty yellow lines was interrupted by the soft echoing cough of a turned over engine somewhere down the way. Their quiet footfalls added to the aquatic tap-tap as their sneakers trekked wetly towards their destination, but soon the in sync movements of their twin stride was disrupted by the hurrying click-clatter of heels, maybe boots. Bret turned to see their bane from earlier jogging to catch up with them, his cow-eye brown boots scuffling and clapping against the cold empty parking spaces. One pointed boot toe splashed into a puddle, and painted the dark wash of his rather tight jeans black around the cuff.

"Do you ever leave?"

Bret snapped at the brunette as he draped his arm over Chris's shoulders, resting it warmly against the thin cottony t-shirt fabric. He could feel the tightness and tense twitch of Chris's muscles beneath the material, the appearance of their visitor automatically rising a low growl from the blond's throat. The two of them were only trying to leave from the arena, was it so much to ask to escape the daily grind without further molestation from a stupidly cocksure colleague? Chris was worn out, both physically and mentally, and Bret just wanted to get them both back to the hotel where they could relax in peace without conspirators and assholes buzzing around throwing barbs and laced smirks at them.

"Whoa, easy there Shitman. I just wanted to congratulate 'Tina on a good match." Mike sing-songed. An arrogant sneer curved his lips where it didn't belong; he was still far too wet behind the ears and naïve to be able to properly wear that smug kind of confidence without looking like nothing more than a complete jackass.

Chris just rolled his eyes.

"The 'Christina' joke was old months ago." The blonde mumbled, pulling away from Bret and heading towards the rental car. He was tired, and not in the mood to deal with the little shithead known to the unfortunate WWE Universe as 'The Miz'.

"His name is Chris." Bret corrected in a tone that was stern and even, his eyes spitting more fire than his words.

"Whatever." Mike shrugged, rolling his eyes up at Paul who had just appeared behind him and laid a massive, spread-fingered hand over his small lover's shoulder.

Chris was over at the silvery car with his head in the trunk which yawned open like a lazy mouth. He situated his bag and things inside and slammed it closed, and turned to see his former lover had joined up with Mike. Both of them were holding some conversation with Bret, the oldest man's voice obtaining a thorny annoyance to it as the giant and his newest toy made themselves pests once again. Paul and Mike wore smirks that were nearly identical not in size, but at least in meanness, as they kept up their harassment.

Chris stomped over, not noticing to avoid the puddles, and feeling the cool slosh of it wetting the legs of his jeans and making them cool against his skin. He sided up to Bret, and glared first at Mike, and then tilted his gaze upwards to fall coldly on Paul.

"You wanted rid of me, I'm gone." Chris said sharply to the giant. "You've obviously moved on, so fuck off and let me move on too. As for Bret, don't you have something better to do than lurk around harassing legends?"

"Let me think for a minute…" Mike rolled his eyes upwards and tapped his finger to his chin in a sarcastic mock-gesture of consideration. "No. Don't you have anything better to do than lurk around fucking legends?"

"Bret and I aren't--" Chris growled.

"That's right, I forgot Chris. You prefer _big_ men such as this one that used to be yours." Mike hooked his arm through Paul's, and with his other hand stroked the slab of Paul's bicep that twitched beneath the cotton material of his hoody.

"I thought you liked pretty guys with abs." Bret cut in, speaking to Mike, and then glancing up and down Paul. "That's sure a big step down from Morrison. But, I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures."

Mike narrowed his eyes at Bret, a look that told the older man he had struck a deep nerve in the kid.

"Don't bring John into this. John is ancient history. I'm glad to be rid of him, hmph. Paul can take me places I could never go with John."

"What, the buffet line?" Chris snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Not me, Irvine." Mike shot back, poking a finger at Chris's middle. "But looks like Paul took you there a few too many times."

Chris grabbed Mike's finger, and twisted it hard, startling a yelp from him which sounded akin to the cry of a small dog whose tail has just been stamped on. Paul flew forwards, immediately grabbing and twisting Chris's shirt in his hands, lifting him easily from his feet. Mike ducked back and rubbed at his finger, pouting and looking like a little girl who just got her pigtails pulled too hard.

"Chris you fucking touch--"

"Let go of him you moron!" Bret snarled, earning a hard palm to the chest that sent him sprawling backwards over the wet pavement.

Chris slipped both of his hands between himself and Paul, beneath the band of the bigger mans sweat pants. He found what was inside and grabbed, squeezing for all it was worth, digging his nails into the sensitive flesh. Paul cried out in pain and let go of Chris's shirt. He sank to one knee clutching at his injured anatomy, as his little buddy scurried over to check on him. Chris moved to Bret, who was just picking himself up off his back.

"Bret--are you okay?" Chris offered a hand to Bret, but he waved it away dismissively.

"I'm fine." He grunted, as he got up to his feet and straightened his jacket. Chris moved behind Bret, plucking some debris from the back of his hair, dusting off the legs of his jeans, and his ass.

"Hey, what are you touching back there?" Bret teased, taking a step away from Chris, and turning to look at him.

"Huh? Oh…nothing…I was just--"

"I know!" Bret laughed, clapping the blond on the shoulder. "Let's go, I think we've had enough scuffling for one night."

The two of them walked past Paul and Mike, who were still both knelt close to each other mumbling and murmuring whatever it was they were saying. Chris and Bret ignored them, and went on their way.

"By the way…" Bret asked, before he got into the car. "What do you call that move?" He smirked, meaning the way Chris had went for the goods and laid Show out.

"Hm…I call it…The Small Package."

They shared chuckles over that, and ducked into the car.

**~}|{~**

"Shawn?" Hunter sighed, reaching across the table to shake Shawn's shoulder. "Are you here?"

"Hm, what?" Shawn blinked, his lashes fluttering over his blue eyes before focusing on the man across the table, noticing for the first time that they waitress had brought them cheddar biscuits and drinks. Shawn didn't even recall ordering a drink. Hunter must have put it in for him, he knew what Shawn always ordered. The smaller man plucked one of the no longer warm biscuits from the basket in the center of the table, and nibbled at it.

"You're awfully distracted lately." Hunter mumbled, narrowing his eyes. "I've been sitting here talking to you and you haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

Shawn looked guiltily down at the food in his hand. Hunter was right, but Shawn didn't want to talk about _why_ he was distracted. That would only serve as a spark to make a huge fire, one that would burn with shouting and hurtful words from both parties no doubt.

"I uh…just have someone—some _things,_" Shawn corrected, quickly. "…on my mind."

The truth was, since that day he'd went to confront Bret, he hadn't been able to get out of his mind that Bret had just shut him down, cut him off, and that was that. With a track record like his, he knew he shouldn't have been so surprised, but he had really hoped that Bret would have been more receptive. Shawn had not been an easy person to deal with in the past, and he was aware of his own shortcomings all too painfully. Still that couldn't change what had happened once upon a time between him and Bret: They had been in love with each other.

_Had _was obviously the key word, but Shawn was of the opinion that a true love couldn't just snuff out over time. Even while being with Hunter and becoming his best friend, and garnering feelings that ran even deeper, Shawn had never been able to completely stop loving Bret. The only thing that made him move on and let Hunter be his second love, was that he had convinced himself Bret would never come back. Bret would never forgive him. There was no chance that they would ever be back together again.

But now, here they were with that exact opportunity, and Bret said no. A return that Shawn had so cooly dubbed as 'not a big deal' was really a big deal to him. It churned up each and every so-called "buried" feeling that he had ever birthed or shared with Bret. Even worse, it was making him question his commitment to Hunter who in all fairness had really been a better lover than Bret. Hunter stuck to Shawn when no one else would. Things with Hunter had been so comforting compared to the non-stop stress and strain that was the attempted relationship between Shawn and Bret. It had always been a hard road to travel, but it was one Shawn's ragged cowboy boots had never really left. It wasn't Bret who was the one still hung up on the past, it was Shawn.

"Bret." Hunter snorted, the one word piercing like the tip of a poisoned arrowhead.

Shawn shifted in the booth.

"I told Vince this was a bad idea, I fucking told him!" Hunter slammed his fist against the table, rattling the plates and cutlery. "Damn stubborn old fool!"

The waitress hovered near their table with twin bowls of salad, looking uncertain. With a forced smile she sat one down in front of each man, and without a word left them scowling at one another. Shawn plucked the curls of purple onion off the top of his salad, and flung them onto Hunters, as was their usual tradition. Neither of them made any motions to dig in though, the topic at hand had seemed to dull both their appetites.

"That he is, Hunt. But he's a good stubborn old fool." Shawn added, with a soft smile.

"Man Shawn, why in the hell did you agree to go along with this crap?" Hunter shook his head, and stabbed a cherry tomato out of his salad. He glared at the poor vegetable so hotly that it should have popped out of fright and spewed its tiny seeds and guts everywhere. "I don't know Shawn. I know you and V are close but…" He chomped on the tomato, and was now glaring at the empty fork tines.

"Hunter, Vince has always known what's best for me when I didn't know. I trust him, and you know what? He was right. He sat down and talked with me about this whole thing before he'd even asked Bret back, and he was right that things need to be cleared up. I just…" Shawn trailed off, poking at the lettuce leaves in his bowl.

"Shawn you didn't want to put the past in the past, you wanted to drag the past to the present. Well, not all aspects of it, but I know what you were thinking." Hunter wagged his fork at the smaller blond.

Shawn's lips turned into a downward frown.

"You don't know what I was thinking, Hunter. You don't know at all."

"Shawn I know you better than anyone else—that includes Vince, and it sure as fuck includes Bret Hart!"

Shawn slammed his fist onto the table in annoyance, just as Hunter had moments ago.

"Sirs, your meals." The waitress stood there timidly with plates of food in each hand, having walked up at the exact wrong time.

"I'm not hungry." Shawn barked, sliding out of the booth and stomping away.

"Shawn, don't!" Hunter stumbled out of the booth, and quickly dropped some bills on the table. The flummoxed waitress was left there, almost inadvertently knocked over by Hunter as he all but ran past. She barely avoided dropping the two untouched plates still in her hands.

"Shawn!" Hunter called as he jogged across the parking lot to where Shawn was standing. "What are you doing?"

"I'm calling a cab, I'm leaving, I'm going back to the hotel. Do I need your seal of approval?"

"Come on, don't be like this. I've always wanted what's best for you. I've always cared Shawn, much more than anyone else ever took the time to." Hunter laid his hands on Shawn's shoulders, gently kneading the tense muscles until they loosened. Shawn sighed, and flipped his phone closed.

"I…I know Hunt. I know, you've been nothing but wonderful to me." He quieted, and looked down at the loose blacktop between his boots. He scuffled his toe against the pebbles. "That's why I feel so horrible about this."

"Look, babe we've been over this a million times. I never expected you to stop loving Bret. I know you still…have…feelings for him." Hunter managed to get out, with only a little grinding of the teeth. "I can over look that. Until a few days ago, so could you. Now look at us!" _And it's all Bret's fault. Bret couldn't leave well enough alone, he just had to come back and stir the pot. He just had to come back and upset Shawn. Hadn't Shawn been through enough already?_

"I'm sorry Hunt, I really am." Shawn turned to Hunter, looking up at him with tears settled in his blue eyes. One leaked down his cheek, winding a silvery trail over his stubbly jaw. Hunter held Shawn to his chest, and rubbed circles on his back, soothing him the best way he could. Better than Bret Hart ever could.

**~}|{~**

Once back at the hotel, Chris and Bret ordered some pizza and sat on the bed sharing it between them, straight out of the box. It was perfect—hot and cheesy and loaded with fattening things that tasted incredible. Bret made a joke that pizza wasn't allowed in The Dungeon, complete with stern expression as Chris picked a pepperoni off of Bret's slice and popped it into his mouth.

"This isn't The Dungeon." Chris reminded Bret as usual, and they both smiled.

"And if pizza _was _allowed in The Dungeon, there would be no pepperoni stealing, meat thief!"

"Meat thief!" Chris burst out laughing.

"That's right." Bret said, and reached for Chris's slice to nab a piece of sausage.

"Whoa, you're calling me the thief? You took my virginity, and now my sausage! You're an evil, evil man." Chris guarded his slice close and comically nibbled at it.

"I guess I just like your sau--" Bret stopped, his phone suddenly blaring with the distinguishable sound of his own entrance music. "It's Steph, hold on Chris."

Bret excused himself from the little pizza party, and moved to a corner of the room. Chris grinned, and plucked off another piece of Bret's pepperoni, making faces behind his back. It was stupid and childish, but really he hadn't had such simple fun for far too long. His free evenings and nights had lately been spent crying, drinking, or crying while drinking. It was refreshing to have someone around, rather than being holed up alone with only triple vision of the t.v. for company.

Bret spoke on the phone a bit longer, and then headed back over to the bed, turning just in time to see Chris stealing yet another red circle.

"I saw that. Bret Hart sees and knows all." He said, wagging his finger. He moved back onto the bed and picked up his piece of pizza, raising an eyebrow at its nakedness.

"What did Princess Stephie want?" Chris asked getting another slice from the box.

"Ah, she's came up with this crazy idea." Bret waved his hand dismissively.

"Sounds typical. So, share?" Chris urged, wondering what 'genius' Stephanie had cooked up this time.

"Um, she wants to keep up the Montreal thing, and have tension building between Vince and I, leading to…a match."

"What! That's great! Bret, go for it!"

"At Mania." Bret added, watching Chris skeptically. The blonds' mouth fell open.

"No way, that would be so—are you serious? You have to!"

"Oh no, I don't think so Chris. I told Stephanie, and even Vince for that matter, that I was just here to make amends with Shawn and put Montreal behind us. I've already done more than I meant to, accepting Stephanie's offer to work behind the scenes with the Creative team. Not to mention, taking on a crazy project like you." Bret smiled, slapping Chris's arm.

"But…but Bret you can't say no! Think of it, one more time on the grandest stage of them all. You can't tell me you don't want that. You can't tell me that didn't stir things up inside you…"

"Chris, that's not the point." Bret shook his head, and pulled some of his gray-brown locks out of his face. "I'm not the same Hitman I used to be. It's been a long time since I've been in the ring, not to mention, I'm not as young as I once was, and I've had a stroke."

Chris frowned, and looked down at his hands, realizing what Bret was saying. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning suddenly getting the best gift under the tree swooped away. He was imagining seeing the great Bret Hart in the ring once more, giving it good to the boss. Chris glanced back up at Bret, noticing the soft smile on his face, and a far away look in his warm eyes. Bret was thinking of it too, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Chris decided he wouldn't press it any more that night, but he wasn't planning on dropping the idea all together. Bret had that look in his eye, and he had wrestling running through his veins. There was still a chance. If Bret had been willing to take a chance on Chris in the state he had been in, then Chris was willing to take that chance right back. The next time Bret was being a pain in his ass about training, Chris was going to be an even bigger pain in Bret's backside about Mania. There was no way Chris could let Bret pass this up.

Wrestlemania XXVI was going to see Bret Hart in the ring again, Bret just didn't know it yet.

**~}|{~**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you to Nef and Lava whose bits of song lyric on Twitter gave inspiration. Also, I'm keeping the Bret storyline following his one leading up to Mania. As for Jericho, his isn't because I want it to be my way. Lol. 

**

* * *

I'll never get over you getting over me**

**x  
**

**If you don't care about me anymore,  
Why do you, you wanna break my heart,  
Into pieces on the floor**

**x  
**

Shawn lay awake, but not for very long. With a sigh he rolled out of bed and began to pace around the small room. Hunter wasn't with him tonight. Shawn had shooed him away, snapping that he needed his space. Hunter had narrowed his eyes at him, his first reaction to be argumentative, but the younger man had swallowed down them impulse and simply left Shawn to himself. God, it hurt so bad. Shawn hadn't imagined Bret's return to just tear this big hole into his life…but maybe that was just a hole that had really never been filled. Maybe he'd just laid leaves over the hole and it had lain there like a trap in the woods, ready for him to walk back over it at sometime, unsuspecting, and fall spiraling down into the darkness. Damn Bret Hart, and damn Vince McMahon too.

Shawn moved towards the window in his room and slipped his hand between one of the blind slats. The world outside was dark, only illuminated by the lights of the city around him. The glass of the window was streaked and spotted with dapples of rain, and in the distance, Shawn could see tiny veins of lightening flickering, intermittently making the bottoms of the silvery clouds glow. They were like natures very own nightlights, those electrical clouds, Shawn thought as he watched. His eyes moved to the darkness up above the clouds, to flit over the dotted stars. _Hey God, why are you doing this to me?_ He thought, silently asking the being who held it all in His hands. It was a very selfish thought of Shawn, but he almost wished that his God hadn't of ever created Bret Hart. He loved Bret, but his love for Bret had tumbled his life into a sea of confusion. Bret was the best and worst of things, and like some sort of medieval plague, he wouldn't go away. Even when he was physically gone, he still lingered in Shawn's heart like a dormant disease, just waiting for its chance to puss up and stink again.

Shawn drew the blind up and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. His still shower damp hair fell over his shoulders and tickled against his unshaven jaw as he closed his eyes, and sighed. Despite being in a relationship with Hunter, Shawn felt lonely. He hadn't felt this way before Bret had came back into his life. Now everything was just turned upside down. He wanted to hear the bed creak as someone rolled out of it, he wanted to hear soft footsteps brush over the carpet as someone came to him, and he wanted to feel strong, warm arms wrap around him and hold him. He wanted that someone to be Bret, when it should have been Hunter. Quiet tears slipped from the corners of his closed eyes and hung on his long golden lashes, and rolled over his cheeks. Shawn wanted that simple comfort more than he had wanted anything for such a long time.

Behind his closed eyelids Shawn remembered a time when he was much younger, standing at the window of a different hotel room, and looking down instead of up. Sometimes he just sank into such a deep, tormented funk, that he would look out a window and wonder what it would be like to just jump and splatter onto the pavement below. One of those nights had been spent in Bret's room, after a heated argument. Shawn had been reduced to feeling like nothing, to wondering why he even bothered existing. His hands had rested shakily against the ledge of the locked window, his fingers twitching to unlock it and slide it opened. What would it matter? Who would care? He bowed his head and cried, feeling the rain of tears splash hotly onto his hands. The pain was so bad that it just consumed him sometimes, and forced desperate sobs from his throat.

But then, those arms wrapped around him, and his bare back was pressed close to a sturdy chest. Bret rested his chin on Shawn's shoulder, and murmured to him how sorry he was, and how much he loved him. For that moment, most of Shawn's pain was washed away. It wasn't even Bret's words that were whispered into his ear, it wasn't even the fingers that brushed the tears from his face; it was just being there in Bret's arms. That was the place that always felt the best for Shawn, always felt the safest, and he never wanted to leave that place.

Shawn opened his eyes, and shivered a little. It felt like some ghost and had passed behind him, and he turned on his heel to look, even though it was silly. In a way though, those memories were only fleeting apparitions. There was nothing in the room with Shawn, there was nobody. His bed loomed in the shadows, big and empty, with the sheets rumpled up and one of the pillows tossed to the floor. His suitcases sat at the foot of the bed, they were his life stashed into luggage. Sometimes so many things about this life haunted him. It was so easy to get lost and lonely out on the road. It was so easy to let the walls cave in, and just cry.

With a sniff, Shawn drew the back of his hand over his cheeks, and made his way towards his suitcases. He hoisted it up to the bed and fished out a pair of jeans, and slipped into them. He knew what he was getting ready to do was most likely a bad idea, but he was going to do it anyway.

His bare feet padded down the hallway, and stopped briefly outside of a certain door. Behind that door was Hunter, probably curled up snoring in his bed. Shawn's fingers toyed with themselves nervously. Guilt was rising and roiling in his belly at what he was going to do. He rested his palm against Hunter's door for a moment, and the passed. He made his way to the elevator at the end of the hallway, and then turned to take the stairs instead. He wasn't sure why he picked to trudge up the stairs instead of riding the elevator. Maybe he was just hoping he might change his mind, and the stairs would give him more time to do that. Shawn reached the top, and his lonely footsteps seemed to echo behind him in the deserted and shadowy stairwell. He didn't turn back. He just went on, and found himself at someone elses door.

His hand fisted and his knuckles tapped against the wood grain. He glanced up and down the hallway. Everything was so quiet and still, it was almost eerie and surreal. The only sound that broke the silence was the muffled thump of his own heartbeat in his ears, as it started to hasten with anxiety. Bret had already turned him away once, and there was no reason to think that he wouldn't be sent packing again. Hart had made his intentions (or lack of) crystal clear to Shawn, and yet here he was, back again. Shawn waited, and waited. He knocked again, and waited some more. He was determined not be turned away without even seeing Bret tonight, and so he tried a third time, this time rapping a little harder. _Please God, please come to the door Bret. I really need you right now._

Shawn's bowed head jerked up when he heard the rattle of locks being undone. The door opened, and Bret stepped out wearing thin boxers and an undershirt. He squinted at the low light in the hallway and rubbed at one of his eyes. His gray-brown hair fell fuzzy and sleep-tangled over his shoulders and around his face.

"Hrmph, Shawn?" Bret yawned. "Shawn, what are you doing here?"

Shawn shifted from foot to foot, and then moved closer to Bret. He wanted those arms to encircle him, but Bret made no move to reach out to him. Shawn dropped his head a little, and stared at his naked feet.

"I…I just…" Shawn stammered, his verbal struggle a soft whisper. "Bret could you maybe just…hug me? Just for a minute, please?"

Bret blinked back at Shawn, his warm eyes catching that all too familiar look of hurt in Shawn's pretty blue ones. He wanted to tell Shawn no, because he didn't want to lead Shawn into the wrong direction. If he gave Shawn the smallest glimmer of hope, then Shawn would no doubt keep pushing and pushing and that was not what Bret wanted. But Shawn looked so damaged and lonely, and Bret hated seeing that look, even though he had often times been the cause of it. Bret watched as his hand reached for Shawn, his fingers gently gliding through the soft golden hair.

"Please?" Shawn moved closer still, and rested his head against Bret's shoulder. Reluctantly, Bret wrapped his arms around Shawn. He couldn't deny that it felt good, that it felt familiar, but it really no longer felt "right" in a romantic sense. Shawn sniffled.

"Thank you Bret." He coiled his arms around Bret's waist and held the other man close, taking in his scent, and they way Bret's chest felt rising and falling against his. His embrace was so warm and comforting. It was a good place to be.

"Shawn, Shawn shouldn't you be with Hunter?" Bret asked, trying not to spit the name. He was still not fond of Hunter, but if H was taking care of Shawn all these years then he had to let go of some of the bitterness. He'd already been able to move past Shawn, so he might as well at least try to move past Hunter too.

"Just ssh. Just hold me."

Bret's arms fell limp against Shawn's sides, and he whined pitifully when Bret moved away from him.

"You should get back to him." Bret said, a little flatly, and headed towards the door to his room. He ducked inside but Shawn had squeezed in after him, and shut the door.

"Shawn!" Bret hissed. "I need to go back to sleep, please go."

"I don't want to go. Can't I stay, just tonight? I just want to be close to you." Shawn's eyes teared up—Bret could see the silvery pools glisten in the darkness of the room. They were eating into him, trying to tear down his defenses.

"No Shawn. No, you can't make everyone give into you all the time. This isn't right. I told you that there are no feelings left between us--"

"Maybe on your side, but Bret you can't speak for me! No one else can speak for me, only I can!" Shawn raised his voice a little, moving towards Bret again.

"Shawn," Bret dropped his voice. "Please keep it down. Listen, I'm sorry. This isn't going to happen though. Fine you want to be close to someone, go cuddle with Hunter. I'm not the man who can hold you anymore. You've been with Hunter all these years that we've been apart, go back to him Shawn. Just go."

Bret silently damned himself, the thoughts of Hunter was really getting to him more than Shawn. It was in the past, it was over, but Hunter…why was it harder to get over that big-nose than it was Shawn? _Because so much of it was his fault. _But it wasn't really Hunter's fault, it was just a wild chain of events, it was so many things and so many people. Shawn and Bret were doomed to fail from the beginning, and yet they'd both decided to take that ride anyway, knowing somehow deep down that it would only end in a crash-and-burn.

"I don't want to be with Hunter right now!" Shawn's fists balled in the darkness, hating himself for hearing the words he was saying. "I want you Bret, I want you!"

"You made your choice Shawn, remember? You screwed--"

"You left! I wanted to make things better and you—you fucking turned tail and left me all alone!" Shawn yelled, his voice cracking with his tears.

"Oh for fucks sake, Shawn. God Almighty couldn't have fixed us by that time! As for you being left alone, you were already with Hunter. You weren't alone, you had him and Vince—the snake. You chose them over me Shawn, so tell me—tell me what I had to stay for? I was supposed to stay and try to please you, a fickle princess? I told you once Shawn and I'll tell you again, yeah I loved you. I loved you so damn much, but I couldn't deal with you anymore, especially not after Montreal. Loving you is exhausting, remember when I said that? I mean it. I also meant it when I said I'm done with this, so Shawn, just go. Just go Shawn."

"You said you forgave me!" Shawn cried. "Yet you're still throwing my miserable past in my face, my every mistake, just rubbing my nose in it! I'm not that person anymore Bret!"

"We've both changed Shawn. I've changed too, and I don't want this anymore."

"You mean you don't want me anymore." Shawn whimpered, his voice trailing off. He stood slumped in the shadows, his shoulders shaking as tears fell harder.

"Shawn…" Bret moved towards Shawn and placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you want we can be friends, but that's it."

Shawn jerked away from Bret, and backed into the wall. His eyes locked with Bret's and regarded him with a storm of cobalt-gray emotion.

"Why do you have to break me over and over Bret, why?"

Bret just shook his head.

"It's always my fault Shawn, isn't it?" Bret reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open. A yellow glow spilled in from the hallway, dissipating some of the darkness in the room. Shawn was slouched against the wall, his bare chest heaving up and down, his face a mask of glimmering sadness. His eyes were tired, the whites bloodshot to pink. His lips were twisted into a painful frown. "I know I fucked up so many things, but it wasn't just me. But you know what Shawn? You want to blame me for everything, you want to heap it all up on my shoulders, fine. Whatever gets you through the night Shawn, but you know what? You're the one who came down here. Just let it go, Shawn. I'm not trying to break you, you're breaking yourself."

The room went quiet, so still. After a heavy moment of silence, Shawn's movement finally broke it. The back of his jeans made a whispering sound as they slid away from the wall. He went to the door and for a moment stood there nearly silhouetted in the dim light from outside. He looked at Bret, wishing there was some trace of love still there, but all he saw was a tired man.

**~}|{~**

"Bret?" Chris mumbled, propping himself up on his elbows. "Were you talking to me?"

Bret moved back into the room and sat at the side of Chris's bed, rubbing a hand over his tired face.

"No Chris, not you. Shawn was here, but he's gone now. Didn't you hear the yelling?" Bret glanced at Chris, and the blonde shook his head in the dark. "You must have been out cold then." Bret laughed a little, and yawned. "How's your back feeling?"

"Doesn't hurt right now, and what the hell was that pill you gave me? That's why I've been out…what are you doing Bret, trying to date-rape me?" Chris joked, smiling slowly, before laughing. Everything felt heavy, and his brain seemed numb.

"Not yet, I never rape on the first date." Bret joked. "Go back to sleep."

Chris decided that was good idea, and laid back down, pulling the covers up a little more.

Bret watched Chris as his heavy lids eased closed, concealing the pretty blue eyes that looked glassy from that pill. With a smile Bret reached over and stroked Chris' short hair, enjoying the feel of the silky strands slipping through his fingers. Chris let out a soft purr and Bret's smile widened, as a warm feeling crept over him. It was not lost on Bret that their friendship was steadily growing, and that he enjoyed spending time with his former student and one-time lover. He was in fact, growing very fond of Chris.

The blond was enjoyable and the change in his demeanor in the short time he and Bret had been together was rewarding enough for Hart. The depressed, heart-broken man he had met in the hallway had given way to one that smiled more, and cracked some of the best jokes. His eyes were lively again, like beautiful blue flames. It just seemed like someone else was always trying to put a damper on Chris's new happiness. He was bound to not let that happen, with the progress being made. Chris was improving every aspect of his life it seemed. He was working hard too, and keeping up with Bret's pushing. His diligence both in and out of the ring seemed to be paying off. Bret knew from watching Chris that he had always given one-hundred percent but with Bret's nudging he had stepped it up even more.

Creative had seen fit to put Chris in an ongoing entanglement with Showmiz, and each promo and match was just brilliant. The real simmering emotions behind the shouted words and heated glares added to the realness of the negative feelings between the three. Their issues crossed borders into both Raw and Smackdown, and one week even Superstars. The angle was really being played up in the short time that was left until The Royal Rumble.

Tonight on Smackdown had been the night that had gained Chris the injury that now had Bret watching over him closer. It was the Friday before The Rumble and so things were coming to a head. Bret had watched as in the ring a raging Chris Jericho had declared that he would eliminate both The Miz and The Big Show from the upcoming pay-per-view event. Miz started to run his mouth, jabbing his finger at Chris, and daring him to try and do so. The Big Show scooted Miz aside and in one large stride was toe-to-toe with Chris and grabbed him up by the lapels of his charcoal suit. The blond looked fittingly scared, his eyes wide as he struggled furtively against the massive man. Laughing, Paul carried Jericho towards the ropes and gloating, held him up higher off the ground and shook him as if he was no more than a tiny rag doll.

Chris had looked down into that sneering face, and Bret knew that there was much more than an act going on between the two men. The face of Paul Wight had been a blight to Chris for so long, even after they'd split up. The yells and eruptions from the crowd seemed to still as Chris mouthed 'fuck you' to the giant, and then spit in his face. The amused leer upturning the wide lips of Paul twisted downwards into a frown of rage. The Miz had stopped running his mouth and taunting the crowd to watch with wide eyes as for a moment the two men broke script—there had been no call for spitting. With a yell of disgust and rage The Big Show tossed Chris over the ropes as was scripted, but the force of the throw was much more than needed to simply make the point of who was going to go over the ropes come Royal Rumble. Chris was practically launched over, a unified groan rose up from the crowd as he was stopped only by the sick thud of his lower back against the edge of the announce table. Bret winced at the impact, but could do nothing but wait until Chris was brought backstage.

Meanwhile, The Big Show grinned at the booing crowd as he stood in the middle of the ring, with Miz looking smug at his side. Near the announce table Chris tried to struggle to his feet, using the announce table to help him up, but the pain that seared through his back had him down before he could get up off of his knees. Matt Striker had finally come around the table, and asked Chris if he needed medical attention. Chris refused and as the program closed with a final shot of a gloating Big Show, Striker helped Chris to his feet. Once he was up Chris shooed Matt away, insisting he was fine. His walk up the ramp and backstage proved otherwise, as it was slow and labored, the pain clearly etched onto his face. Bret was first to meet Chris backstage and was immediately concerned, and urged Chris to get looked at by the medics.

"N-no I'm okay…I just wanna sit down." Chris answered, trying to keep as much of the groan out of his words as possible.

Bret followed Chris towards his dressing room and watched, shaking his head as Chris limped and hobbled towards the restrooms instead. When Chris re-emerged Bret was leaning up against the wall with a scowl on his face.

"I can't believe that asshole did that." Bret snapped, glancing at Chris. "You're pale, are you okay?"

Chris nodded.

"Eh, yeah just pissed blood."

"Bruised kidneys, no doubt. You stay with me tonight, so I can keep an eye on you." Bret laid a hand on Chris' shoulder.

Luckily, there had been no more blood. Chris didn't have that much time to rest up from the injury because The Rumble was Sunday. With The Rumble so close Bret had wondered what in the hell Paul was trying to do by deliberately hurting Chris. With things already planned out, the last thing McMahon would appreciate would be a careless (or a carefully planned) injury of one of his Superstars. From his dealing with Wight though, he seemed to be generally mean-spirited and vengeful. Bret figured that launching Chris into the announce table was a kind of re-payment for the night Chris had clawed his junk in the parking lot. Maybe Paul had even hoped to sideline Chris from The Rumble, Bret wouldn't have put it past him. His ruthlessness seemed to have no boundaries. Even though Chris' was injured Bret knew that the blond wasn't going to let that keep him out of The Rumble. He had worked too hard and endured too much to be defeated so easily. Besides, he was due to win The Rumble, as he had declared some days ago on Raw.

The plan was to have The Big Show, The Miz, and Jericho as the last three in The Rumble. The Miz was going to turn on Show, and he and Jericho together were going to eliminate the giant. Jericho would then get Miz over the ropes, thus claiming his victory. Then Chris Jericho would earn a world championship match at Wrestlemania. Bret imagined Chris victoriously in the ring at The Royal Rumble, well on his way to an iconic match at Mania. Bret yawned, and curled up next to Chris, lacing his hands behind his head, as he stared up at the ceiling. Shawn's words from moments ago began to loop through his mind again, as the vision of Chris at The Rumble faded to scenes from Montreal. With a sigh, Bret shook his head, dislodging the all too familiar snapshots. Dealing with Shawn was bending Bret's mind and giving him more than a headache. He rubbed at his temple, and then turned to glance again at Chris who had shifted a little in his sleep. Bret touched the soft bleached hair again, and closed his eyes. Yeah, it was worth it.

**~}|{~**


End file.
